In Rilla's Eyes
by katherine-with-a-k
Summary: The children of Rainbow Valley have all grown up into gorgeous, funny, 15-20 somethings; with plans for their futures and their eyes on each other. The world is theirs ...until the world goes to war. Now nothing can ever be the same between them -especially for Rilla Blythe and her brother's best friend, Ken Ford. This is what happened...
1. Kenneth Ford gets his Come-uppance

**IN RILLA'S EYES  
**

_~with thanks to Go Dons for the Rilla-Ken idea, and AlinyaAlethia for the goods on the grown up kids of Glen St Mary_

_~and as always, with love and gratitude to L.M. Montgomery -everything is hers, only this idea is mine_

**_K+_**

_**Chapter One: Kenneth Ford gets his Come-Uppance**_

_In which we are introduced to Anne and Gilbert's eldest children; Jem, twins Nan and Di, and Walter_, _and __their best friends_, _Jerry and Faith_ _Meredith, and_ _Kenneth Ford._ _But first, as it must and always shall be, it begins with Susan Baker in the kitchen..._

**Ingleside, Glen St Mary, July 1914**

Susan Baker heard them before she saw them, of course! Strains of 'Onward Christian Soldiers' being sung in tones hardly meant for church. Not that they had come from one, this young set were far more keen on the irreverent ways one could while away a summer's afternoon. Though Susan suspected there were _some_ in that chorus coming over the hill that felt just as close to God amongst the trees and flowers as they did among the pews and hymnals.

But then one could not grow up under the loving hand of Anne Blythe without acquiring some of her more peculiar traits. Not that Susan would admit that anything Mrs Dr dear did could _ever_ be brought into question. Why she would rather be cursed with such swollen, hot hands as could never make shortbread or pastry again than say one word against that angel! And yet she might also wish those rowdy youths coming up the shallow slope on the last stretch to home might not make such an exhibition of themselves -even if it was only birds and beasts as heard 'em. The way they sang "We are not divided, All one body we!" sounded, to her ears at least, faintly scandalous.

"Su-san! Su-san!" one of them called now. It was Jem, Susan knew, who had that tone of voice that was all his father's, with the smallest hint of laughter all through it, as though waiting patiently for everyone else to finally get the joke.

Much less innocent exclamations followed, as someone -either Jem or Jerry, you could be sure of that- had caused an upset in the hallway. Then came the sounds of a sword fight. Ah, it was those umbrellas again! If they would only slot them into the stand as she told them to, they would not always be knocked about the place by their great big feet. And she rolled the pastry into a nice long sausage to be rested, trying to recall what size feet the young men had in _her day -_as young Rilla Blythe would put it. They were surely not so big as the ones they all had now, but then that was progress for you.

In all events the tall auburn haired lad had clearly vanquished his foe, as he made his way now to that most sacred place in the Ingleside homestead that was Susan Baker's kitchen.

"Poor Susan, slaving away in the dark again, why don't you listen to ol' Dads and let him have an electric light installed in here?" Jem said, and he strolled over to the white stone bowl brimful of cherry pie filling and scooped out a finger full. Although he was a clear foot taller Susan batted his hand away with a such a swipe he might have been a fly.

"Away with you, James Blythe, you alone know where those mitts have been and even then I wouldn't take your word for it," she snipped, grasping the bowl with a territorial stance that Jem knew all too well. The boy sucked on his thumb cheekily and went to the pantry. " 'Sides, it is _not_ dark in here," she called after him, "it's only that you've come from the bright outside. We have no need of these switches and wires in here, thank you very much. Mrs Forbes from Over-Harbour gave all her lamps away when they had the _electrickery_ installed and remember what happened in the first big storm? The silly woman didn't have a match to light the fire with!"

Susan might have continued and would have enjoyed it had not the sounds of clinks and clatters coming from her stores begun to distract her -what _was_ he doing in there?

"And I don't see how you can all be so hungry still," she said to Jem, as he reappeared a moment later with a tray of sugary, flakey, buttery treats. Perhaps, she surmised as he winked one hazel eye at her, such excessive appetites showed on some men not by the number of holes in their belts but by the size of their boots! "Why, I'm positive when I gave you those hampers this morning you described it yourself as Baker-nalian!" It had been Walter's little quip and they had left the dear duck to assume he had indeed been referring to Susan's cooking abilities, rather than the god of wine, women and song. "So, I don't know why you'd be wanting another dozen puffs on top when I sent you out with _two_ pies!"

"Yes, well..." Jem began, trying to squeeze a jar of gooseberry preserves onto his pile, "there was a bit of bad luck with the peach one. You know your pies might sit up as soft and light as pillows, sweet Susan, but they are definitely _not_ for sitting on. That's why you find us all back so soon -poor sis needed clean duds."

Susan deftly swapped the gooseberry preserves for plum, for heaven knew there were enough plums this year to have all manner of girls falling into them. But the gooseberry, _that_ was for the Doctor.

Poor Di, she found herself thinking now, ever the gooseberry in the little quartet of Jem and Faith, Nan and Jerry. Thank goodness she and her younger brother, Walter, were so close -if only she'd take a liking to someone else's little brother, that Carl Meredith say. Though she supposed one felt the age difference more keenly at nineteen than at sixty, where a gent of fifty-eight would certainly be appreciated. Susan exhaled deeply and took her rolls of pastry to the cool store, the very image of a pigeon; nodding her head and ever sighing, _poor poor Di, poor poor Di._

"How on earth did you know it was Di who needed a change of kit?" Jem asked. Though his jaw pressed down to steady the pile on his tray he sounded clearly impressed.

"Because I never heard her go up the stairs, you see."

"No, I don't see," Jem said, quite mystified. But clearly Susan Baker did, _all too well_ -he would have to be extra careful when he snuck out on his moonlit trysts with Faith.

"Well, Nan's in those little heels all the time, you never have to look up to know when _Nan's_ come into the room. Whereas _Di_ wears slippers-"

Jem made a mental note to recommend Nan give up those silly shoes if she planned to take any little strolls of her own.

"Well you needn't pity Di for all that! She caught _two_ trout, you know? She's washing them now at the pump. Ken's the one I feel for, Di's been teasing him something savage for never landing one. Says he's gone soft after all that city living."

As well he would, Susan thought, with that same sense of rightness someone else might have felt on being taught that one and one equal two. Famous author or no, it was almost inexcusable of Owen Ford to whisk their Leslie off to Toronto -what a place to raise a child! That son of theirs was certainly no Island boy.

"Well I for one will never be sorry to hear when Kenneth Ford gets his come-uppance! With him forever gadding about with that look upon his face -as though he just talked his way out of a spanking and was rather pleased about it!"

Jem wondered who might _not_ be pleased at such an outcome, possibly the Rome-ish sort -though if he chanced such an opinion in Susan's holy realm she was likely to snatch the tray from him and spank him with it herself.

"What say, Blythe," the man in question said, his dark tousled head poking through the kitchen door, "are you baking the eats yourself, what's the hold up?"

"Stick your arms out," Jem replied, and plonked the tray in his hands, "if you act as donkey it saves me the trouble of coming back for the drinks."

"Not surprised it took you so long," Ken said, those dark grey eyes of his lighting up at the sight of all that booty, "you have to feel your way about like a blind man in here! There's such a thing as light-bulbs now, you know? Though I suppose you Island folk are waiting till you can plug in a potato!" and he chuckled good-naturedly, in that velvety way which made most people -that is, most _female_ people- want to laugh along with him.

They were in scant supply in this kitchen, however, Jem just rolled his eyes, mulling over the best angle to chip at the block of ice before him, and felled such a slab of the stuff that it shattered like glass upon the floor. Suddenly the ice pick was whipped from his hands and brandished at the two boys wildly.

"That's it! Out! Out! Both of you, out!" Susan hollered, as Jem and Ken took lurching steps backward, "and if I _dare_ see either of you in here again today it won't just be the ice that gets it."

They scooted out to the porch steps but not before Jem had bravely scooped up bottles of lemonade and elderflower to take with him. And if the girls wanted it cold well they could prize the icepick out of Susan Baker's hands themselves.

**… … …**

"That is _it_ for me," Nan said, wiping the last crumb from her plump little lips, "it'll be dinner in a moment and then I really _will_ explode!"

She lay back against her sister's leg with a flourish and nestled into the grassy slope that ran beyond the porch of Ingleside. They had intended to make their way back to Rainbow Valley. But who could walk another step now? With the lawn so soft and cool, and minty little zephyrs wafting among the swollen heads of roses and peonies. Oh, what bliss to be home!

"Just make it a pick up supper then, sister dear," Jem said, lazily, -Faith really had bested him in that little tennis match, perhaps he was spending too much time with his head in a book. He peered around to see if Susan was lurking nearby and then following Nan's example popped his head upon Faith's lap.

"Me?" Nan sneered, "and why should _I _do it I'd like to know?"

Jem sighed comfortably, "Because, you ninny _I_ made the afternoon tea."

Faith gave him a playful swipe, but there was another young girl in their company who felt more should be done than that. She may have shared Jem's hair colour but she most definitely did _not_ share his sentiment!

"_Made_ it?!" Di scoffed, tucking fiery curls behind her ear with an impatient hand. "You raided Susan's pantry is what you did! Do you think all those plum preserves and apple tarts just appear on their own! Who do you think made them?"

Her green eyes sparkled dangerously. Jem Blythe had been notably absent when the women of Ingleside had toiled in the kitchen over scalding pots of fruit this year -and _every_ year come to that!

"Don't mention tarts!" Nan wailed pathetically, "I _always_ do this when we come back home, and I always return to school in the fall vowing _never_ again... Oh, but Susan bakes like an angel."

_An avenging angel_, Jem thought to himself, taking a swig of his warm lemonade. He plumped his head upon Faith's thighs and gave Di a little wink.

Di clicked her tongue at him, deciding what her brother actually needed was some good old fashioned ignoring. And she brought her attention back to the greedy goose in her own lap who was rubbing her stomach in feathery circles.

"You should have observed my foresight, sis-"

"And landed in a pie whilst trying to land a fish?" Nan laughed.

"No dear," Di sighed with mock impatience, "put on a nice, comfy dress."

Nan eyed her faded print with a sly hint of disdain on that rosebud of a face. Honestly, Di! Could she not even make the tiniest effort? Blousey old dresses were all very well on an 'any ol' day' sort of day, but _not_ for a silken Saturday afternoon -with that dish of a Ken Ford to boot! If Nan were not _very _much taken with a certain minister's son she might have turned her head at him, herself. There was not a hint of the annoying big brother about him now, he was even taller and broader than Jem! But for all that her heart _was_ already taken, and heavenly so! In which case it fell to Nan to look out for her darling twin Though Di might help herself too!

She could just see Di was going to go in for all those thoroughly shapeless things that Ken's sister, Persis, assured her were becoming _all the rage -_such a funny phrase, it sounded almost like swearing- she might let someone else say it in front of Father first. But oh these new silhouettes were so very disappointing. Nan would hate to give up the little pieces that made a woman a woman. How nice it was to be tucked up tight in a satiny corselet, and laced up like a present! Though at this moment she did regret getting little Rilla to pull quite so tightly this morning, she really was fit to burst!

"You do look lovely like that, Di," said Walter, who was probably the only other person at the gathering to have noticed either Nan's derision or what Di wore. "A girl with such vivacious hair should leave her garb plain. Think of those pre-Raphaelites-"

"-Not the pre-Raphaelites _again_, Walter -scoundrels and wastrels all of 'em!" Jem sighed again, this time with more bluster.

"Oh do stop professing opinions that aren't your own," Faith admonished the lad in her lap.

Walter's own clothes felt suddenly constricting and he went very hot about the ears as her luminous face turned to him now with a look that said: what are we going to do with that brother of yours!

"Think of those pre-Raphaelites," he repeated, as Jem and Faith became embroiled in another difference of opinion, "all those divine women," here he resolutely did _not_ look upon the woman who best fitted that description "dressed in nothing but smocks-"

"-Hah! Smocks! Well _you_ said it Walter, _I_ didn't."

Nan this time. Not that it fazed Walter in the slightest. The Ingleside clan were well used to talking over, around and through each other. It was only others who had a time keeping up.

"No one is_ looking_ at their smocks," Walter said. A little pointedly too, Nan thought -showing off for Faith again, no doubt. Would her dreamy brother ever see sense? "but at their radiant beauty! Remember Di, what your own sweet namesake told us? That Marilla would put Mother in the meanest little things and Father said they only seemed to make her look more lovely."

"Since when did you care so much for the feminine mode?" Faith asked him now, cutting Jem off midpoint through his argument by holding her hand over his mouth. She pulled away with a squeal as Jem licked her palm.

"I'm trying to listen to Walter, you scallywag!" and she stared at Walter determinedly, with golden eyes like little flames that seemed to burn right through him.

"Well I _don't_, particularly-" Walter's cheeks following by way of his ears.

"Exactly!" Jem declared. "There now Faith, he was actually saying the opposite, weren't you Walt? Trouble with _you _Miss Meredith is you _don't_ listen-"

"-Oh, and I clearly had your full attention! _You_ weren't listening either-"

"-Kenneth, Jerry!" Jem called out to the green through the rose hedge, that had this summer been rather grandly designated 'the tennis court'- "put those bally rackets down and lend some support to us poor fellows -these women are in high dudgeon!" and he fought off the tickly fingers that pretended to choke him.

Two tall lads appeared through the blooms, one limping, one bounding -though the enticement of a certain doe-eyed maid might have been the reason for the latter's haste- and he tucked up smartly on the grass besides Nan and gave her hand a little squeeze.

"Thanks be that little hit-about was called to a halt," Jerry said, with a lop-sided grin, "poor old hoppity here was making a dreadful show of it."

"I was leading two games to one as I recall," Ken replied, as he sat rather awkwardly on the slope. His foot began to throb painfully and he wrangled with an empty basket to rest it upon.

"Whatever are you doing larking about like that, Ken?" Nan asked him pertly, "I thought-"

"If you so much as mention this accursed ankle, Nan Blythe, the next pie I find will have your face all over it!"

"Try it Ford, and your other ankle will be next," Jerry said. There was a hint of humour in the midst of those quick, black eyes that stared back at Ken. But the merest of hints for all that.

"No you really mustn't, Ken," Di giggled, giving that dear old Ford boy a wink, "Nan couldn't eat another thing, could you darling!"

Nan spent the smallest moment deciding whether to laugh or not, and then rewarded those around her with a silvery peel of lightness -if ever a flower could laugh it would laugh like Nan.

"Alright I admit it, I _would_ like to change into something more comfortable," she said. There was the oddest dress that Persis had sent her via her big brother, Ken, that she might put on for dinner. She would have to remember to tell Rilla that she wanted back on their swap -though Rilla's snug little cap _was_ darling...

Walter pulled himself up in one swift movement and twitted Di's pretty nose, lovingly, "There, what did I tell you Di my dear. You are dressed to prosey perfection!" and he lay back on the grass again, as though his work here was done.

Di smiled down at him affectionately, noticing how inky his hair looked, how creamy his skin, against the vivid green of the grass. No one who did not know them might have guessed they were ever related. Walter seemed in all ways the opposite of Di, his beauty and sensibility a very poem to her prose.

"Prosey perfection... that reminds me," Ken said, pouring himself a drink, "don't suppose you provincial types caught wind of that scandal in Russia-"

"Russia, Prussia, bullrusher!" Nan exclaimed. "That's all you mainlanders have to talk about I suppose. On the Island we hardly need to talk at all, we just... listen... to the trees and the wind and the sea..."

Ken stifled a snort. The Blythes, listen? Did any family talk _more_ he'd like to know. "Oh, well in that case you might want to _listen_ to this. I just read about it last week, in the newspaper-"

"Yes, we have those here too, Ford-"

"No, not the rag you wrap the fish in, Jerry, an actual newspaper. In St Petersburg, there was a terrible dispute between two esteemed intellectuals, who actually argued _for_ _days_ about what the highest form of literature was, poetry or prose-"

"Poetry!" Walter and Di called out together, colliding with another call of "Prose!" from Jem and Faith.

Jerry sniffed. These Blythes -sometimes they seemed like perfect heathens! His sister Faith at least should know that the greatest and most beautiful word of all was the Word of God.

"So," asked Nan, "which one was decided on?"

"It wasn't," Ken answered darkly, "when they couldn't agree, the poet shot the other in the heart, and then he shot himself!"

"Oh, _Kenneth_!" Nan grumbled, perhaps there was something of the annoying big brother about him after all!

"Those Russians!" Jem said, with equal disdain, "you wouldn't want to depend on them in a pinch." *

"We may have to yet," Jerry said, "if those ancient warhorses ever show some sack. All this to-ing and fro-ing, at this rate it'll be our _sons_ who fight for glory-"

Nan blushed a perfect pink, wondering if Jerry was referring to _their_ future sons or just sons in general. Walter too, felt flushed with feeling. He knelt up now and looked at the other boys, his eyes like great, cold sparks.

"_Glory?_ What glory is there in fighting for those ancient war-horses, as you call them? We ought to be turning every fibre of our hearts to the hope of a lasting peace."

"I'll tell you where the glory is, little brother" Jem fired back, "in travelling to shores far from our own to defend _their_ right to live freely as we do."

"If Mother England and the Prussians stayed on their own turf and protected their own we wouldn't _need_ to go abroad."

"All this talk of the pre-Raphaelites, Walter, yet you seem to forget that before everything else they were a _brotherhood_! You sound as though nothing could make you leave the Island! Who would you have go and fight for you -Di? little Rilla? I sometimes wonder if you have it in you to be even _half_ so bold-"

"Jem!" Faith cut in sharply, her eyes flashing, "He doesn't mean that Walter, darling -_do you_, James?"

Jem was quiet, almost as taken aback himself at the virulence of his words. It was this constant talk of war was the cause of it. War: like an insidious virus that spread even to the farthest reaches of the little isle of Prince Edward.

All eyes were on him now, excepting Di; who looked at Walter studying the grass beneath him as though he'd never seen such a thing before. She looked down herself and plucked a small lawn daisy, tossing it cleanly so that it landed by her brother's knees. Walter picked it up with a little half smile and tucked it behind his ear. Then Jem sat up and reached for him, scruffing his floppy, black hair apologetically. The flower fell to the grass again.

"No hard feelings, brother?" Jem asked, relieved to see that gentle goodness returning to Walter's eyes. "Of course you have no taste for war. I forget how ill you've been." Jem hadn't forgotten, and Walter knew he hadn't -still it was good of him to say so. "You know, you won't have lift a toe off this ol' rock if you don't wish to. Your name will travel the world for you instead."

"Walter, do you mean to say they published those poems?" Ken asked, he was as eager as any of them to change the subject, but such news was a sincere joy to him. "You never said a word, you sly dog. This calls for a celebration!"

"Ooof," Nan whimpered, smoothing her hands down her belly, "I thought we _had_ celebrated-"

"We were waiting for Mother and Father to return from Avonlea, we thought tomorrow-" Walter said, quietly.

"-Dash tomorrow, we won't have such a time with them at table," -and Susan to boot! Ken thought with a grimace, "what say we take that private room above the coach house at the station. This news deserves something better than warm lemonade!"

"Ah, I see a dark cloud on the horizon," Jerry said now, leaning on his elbow to have a better look at the two figures coming up the lane to Ingleside. Jem recognised his manner immediately and shuffled away from Faith.

"Friend or foe?" he asked, before looking out to the gate where Jerry's eyes were fixed.

"Depends upon the hour, I'd say," Jerry replied laconically, "that woman has more moods than your cat!" If the Blythes were verging on pagan in Jerry Meredith's book then Gertrude Oliver was a positive witch!

"Hardly a black cloud though, Jerry," Ken said, driven by curiosity to look now and liking what he saw, "she looks the sweetest puff of light I've ever seen!"

"No you dolt, that figure in black sliding in the shadows next to her."

Ken gave that tiny woman a cursory glance, but what was there to hold his attention compared to the angel who walked lightly by her side? Like a long stem of cherry blossom, laughing and swinging her lithe arms about, her hair worn loose in chestnut waves. With dusky downcast eyes and an utterly kissable mouth; she was extraordinary, she was loveliness itself.

She was coming nearer now, Ken found himself sitting up straighter and raking back his hair in a manner that Nan wished he wouldn't, his feet twitching with boyish impatience. It was faintly ridiculous to come over like this, and yet here he was now scanning the faces of the males in his company watching their reaction. Jem and Jerry were obviously more gone than he had supposed to treat this girl's approach with such composure. And his only other likely rival, that dark and brooding Walter, looked over at two girls with nothing more than a brotherly smile. Well that was that, then. For surely this quaint little burg had no other suitor who might outshine him. They must insist that she come to the party tonight!

His skin began to prickle as the sweetest fragrance whispered over him now, that seemed -improbable but true- of this beautiful girl. It was as though he felt her before he saw her. This was only supposed to happen in books! He could not resist now turning his head to gaze at her again. And she was looking straight at him!

She was smiling, she was blushing, she was gorgeous...

She was Rilla!

**... ... ...  
**

**The end of this chapter was a little nod to the end of Rilla of Ingleside -when Rilla doesn't recognise Ken :o)**

**Tune in for chapter two, and read how "awesomely clever, velvety, glamourous, lady-killer Kenneth Ford" (L.M.M's words, not mine!) reels about like a love-struck school boy ...if only he was as old as one!**

**Thank you for taking the time to read! :o)  
**

**...**

* Opinion emphatically not author's own.


	2. The Trouble with the Blythes

**Chapter Two: The Trouble with the Blythes...**

_In which Kenneth Ford discovers that you can fall in love at first sight with someone you've always known. And Rilla's tears beg the question; is it worse to be called carrots or spider..?_

**_Ingleside, Glen St Mary; July 1914 ...later that same day.  
_**

He might have laughed about it only hours before but Kenneth Ford was rather fond of the dimly lit house now. It cooled and more importantly obscured a hideously hot, red face. For that is what it had been. Hideous!

What exactly had come over him just now? Perhaps there had been something else in that lukewarm lemonade, though he doubted Susan had the imagination for such a thing. How to explain then that _he;_ Captain of the Blues, editor of the Toronto Tatler, host of the notorious Artists and Muses Ball, and in all ways very much the scholar and the gentleman, had been ogling -it was a harsh description, but if the cap fit- the Blythe baby! He was born in 1893. _She_ was born in 1899. The difference did not bear calculating, the repercussions did not bear thinking about!

He went to take a tentative look outside, eyes not wanting to see and then of course seeing immediately the girl herself. She was still standing, though he knew she had been invited to sit, for he had offered her his own spot on the lawn before she had even had time to open her mouth. And the look on her face as he left was still the same too. A quivering hurt she was too young to know how to disguise.

She looked up at the house now, little Rilla Blythe, with her bottom lip pinched and eyes wide. Autumn coloured eyes that seemed now to look straight at him, even though he knew the gloomy hallway must have kept him from sight. He hoped it did and retreated further inside, only to collide with the handles of three umbrellas that jutted out of the hall-stand like a gaggle of geese, and he fell back heavily on his broken ankle. A sharp stab of pain coursed through him now, the sort that would always remind him of the rotten tackle that caused it. How was it then that he wasn't thinking of his foot at all -least of all the damned game- but whether Rilla could still see him?

Ken could still see her, even as he turned awkwardly and made his way to the 'phone near Susan's kitchen. He had told his friends that he should go and inquire about the use of the room above the coach house for the evening. But as he picked up the receiver now he half wished he might hear it was unavailable. For he knew in his absence that Rilla would be invited to join them, and that was the last thing he wanted. He hadn't seen the girl in nearly two years and would be quite happy for twice that time to pass before he set his eyes on her again. He would be an old man by then -_four years was a lifetime for_ _a child!_ And then she wouldn't look at him like that anymore...

Those sweet, solemn eyes; of gold and brown, of light and dark, of joy... and then of sorrow. And he remembered again that look she gave him when he abruptly got up to leave.

She had been so ready to welcome back her old playmate. Hadn't he helped her fell an old birch for her tree tower the last time he saw her? They played tug-o-war with the saw, as they chopped down the trunk to make little round stools and thinner slices to serve as a stepping stone path. He and Walter and one of the Merediths -was it Carl or Una? somebody with dark blue eyes a least- had sat down to tea, crouching low with knees colliding as little Rilla proudly poured out for them into little china cups. She had steeped lemon-balm and spearmint in the sweet water of the Valley stream, he suddenly remembered -and very nice it was too!

Ken hadn't looked at Rilla twice then, and she had not changed all that much. She was certainly much taller, with arms and legs all over the show -more so now than ever, she looked a proper little spider! But her hair was the same glossy chestnut. Her face the same creamy oval, with golden dapples over her nose, and the apples of her cheeks. And the same questioning stare from her long lashed, wide, hazel eyes...

But no... somehow not the same. Not the same at all.

He heard a noise by the stairs now and looked toward the front door and Rilla was there, looking at him again -not sad anymore, but gallantly trying to appear as if she did not care about him in the least. It was almost funny. And then it was not.

It was gold and brown. Light and dark. Joy and unquestionably, sorrow.

Ken made a show of being busy on the 'phone and turned from her with a careful carelessness, when to his relief he heard her light step upon the stair. It was only then when she had gone from sight that he trusted himself to speak, and finally put the call through to the coach house.

**… … …**

"All set then, Ford?" Jem called to Ken, as he made his slow approach back to the lawn. "Don't think you have to stump up for this, you know."

Jem knew the type who let Owen Ford's son pay for everything and never meant to be one of them.

Ken looked at Jem in a dull sort of stupor. "Yes," was all he said.

He felt as though they sat there looking at him, Jem and Faith, the twins and Walter, as if they knew the secrets workings of his heart. Everything pulsed inside him; the throb in his foot and the one in his chest. It seemed impossible that no one noticed.

"You don't look right," Walter said. He had been cloud gazing but when Ken had approached he propped himself up on his elbow."Do you want to sit down?"

"Oh... it's this blasted ankle," and it was, of course it was "I knocked it on the hall-stand. I really shouldn't have been playing tennis."

"No, you shouldn't have," Nan said, kindly, "come and have a sit by me."

Which he did, though he regretted it -and not for the look on Jerry's face- but because his position didn't provide a clear view of the house. He wanted to be prepared for when Rilla came back to join them.

"What time shall we set off then, will I have time to pin my hair properly do you think?" Nan asked him. She brought her hands up to her hair and began to tease and plump it with her fingers, bringing to mind a particular image from her favourite magazine.

The effect brought something else to mind for Jerry; as though it was not only hair that was being teased.

"You look lovely just the way you are, Nan," Jerry ventured and was rewarded with a thrilly smile.

Jerry Meredith! Wasn't _he_ lovely? Wasn't the dear, old world, such a perfect place to be, right now? No, she wouldn't go back on her swap after all, then if she didn't have time to set her hair she could wear Rilla's little chocolatey cap! Something would have to be done about Di though, and she looked over at her twin.

"Don't worry, Nan dear, I know very well what you're thinking. I'll go and change in a mo'," Di laughed, "I was thinking of asking if I might try on that little number that Persis sent you."

There! What had she said to herself not an hour ago -Nan just _knew _that creation of Persis' had caught Di's eye.

"Persis is a darling! It really is the most glorious colour ...though between you and me," and the four others in their midst -but that was no matter at Ingleside, where everyone knew everyone's business or thought they they did- "I think Persis' idea of fashion is not quite the same as mine," Nan gave a shy glance at Ken now, by way of an apology. "She really _is _coming on though, that sister of yours. The beadwork alone must have taken her hours!"

"That little lady go off then?" Ken asked.

Kenneth Ford. He wasn't even listening! Nan began to smooth invisible creases in her her stockings with a thorough concentration.

"Miss Oliver, you mean?" Faith asked him, then, "why you haven't been introduced yet, have you, Ken? You left so smartly when she arrived I almost thought you were avoiding her. Don't be deceived by my dear brother. She's race of Josephy through and through, isn't she Di?"

"Through and through!" Di grinned, "we can't all be little rays of sunshine, you know," this said especially for Jerry's benefit, who was looking like a little black cloud himself, "the world needs the other seasons too, don't forget. She's staying with us, in Rilla's room-"

"-The two of them are thick as thieves," Nan interjected, "it's so sweet the way they get on, though Miss Oliver is even older than _you_."

Ken pinched at a daisy and began to pluck its petals out. "Older than me," he said vaguely.

"Bruce is like that, too," Faith added, thinking of her father and Rosemary's son, "your little shadow, isn't he, Jem? I suppose it comes from being the baby of the family. You become so used to everyone being older than you it stops seeming such a barrier to friendship."

"Not that it seems to rub off on her," Jem replied, as he carelessly tossed the remnants of their picnic into the hampers, "rather she seems to bring out the child in everyone."

"I think that's one of the loveliest things you've ever said, brother," Walter smiled. "Shame Puss wasn't here to hear it." And he took one hand that cradled his head and scratched at his nose distractedly.

"I'm not," said Jem, feeling rather put upon now. When he had bet Faith he would put on the afternoon tea if he lost to her in tennis he didn't imagine she meant the tidying up as well. "I can imagine her being quite offended and snubbing me for days after- I _am_ going on thixteen, you know!" he said, in a fair imitation of his littlest sister.

"You missed a cup," Faith said, laughingly.

"A _lot_ younger than Miss Oliver, then" Ken said.

"She just turned fifteen, the silly sausage," said Di. "You and Persis sent her that outrageous silver cuff, didn't you?" Ken, of course, had no idea -he hadn't even signed the card. "She won't take it off, you know, even though it dangles round her wrist like a manacle."

Kenneth Ford was not the son of an author for nothing and sighed inwardly at the a poetic justice of such a gift. He felt, _Lord help him,_ he felt tied to her. Even now it was as though he sensed her move about the house in the rooms upstairs. And the only way he could give relief to this was by asking more about the woman who was up there with her.

"And how long is she staying, Miss Oliver I mean ...will she come out tonight do you think?"

Nan and Di shared such a look now; a whole conversation the way only twins can: Are you thinking what I'm thinking? No! Yes! He can't stop talking about her! So I noticed! Pulling petals to boot! Noticed that too! Ken likes Gertrude Oliver! No! Yes! - And so it went on. It fell to Faith to answer him again.

"No, poor soul, she had another head coming on so they came back early from the Elliot's. Rilla's seeing to her-"

"So, she won't be coming then?" That poor flower in Ken's hand worried to a little stem of nothing.

"Miss Oliver?" Faith asked, with her inquisitive cat stare.

"Or-" Ken said.

"Or?" Faith repeated, not willing to guess what he meant.

She wasn't one to put words in anyone's mouth -except Jem's of course- especially if they seemed so out of sorts. Poor old Kenneth, it would be just like him to go on with this party even when he had lost the party spirit. It sometimes occurred to her that Ken and Walter shared more than just their dark grey eyes.

"Rilla," Ken answered her now.

How strange her name suddenly sounded, and he looked about with a wary eye as though he expected his friends to all point at him and shout _Hah! We_ _knew it!_

The rest of his friends _were_ pointing and staring, but not at Kenneth.

"Rilla!"

"Oh, Rilla!"

"Rilla, my dear, what have you come as?"

Ken turned back with a start at the young girl who stood before him, and she was not what she was before. Not in that summery, white linen dress but in something else altogether. Something that had Persis Ford written, or rather sewn, all over it.

"That's one of Persis'," Ken exclaimed, of the butterfly sleeves and hobble skirt that was wearing Rilla Blythe.

Rilla bobbed about in the jade green sheath with an uninhibited glee.

"I thought I'd wear it to the party tonight!" she said, excitedly.

Even though she wasn't in long skirts yet, Ken felt he was looking at far more of Rilla Blythe than he had ever seen before. There was something about that dress that seemed almost indecent. Her arms and legs looked so exposed and there was such a _lot _of them to see. She looked like a shiny beetle and more spidery than ever.

Whatever had he been thinking? This was Rilla, _little_ Rilla! And he laughed at his own stupidity, and with sincere relief.

"_You're_ not coming, spider!" Ken burst out with a grin, "grown-ups only I'm afraid."

Rilla went white and then a nasty shade of red, as she looked over at Di and Walter.

"We never said you could come, Puss, just that you might ask," Walter said with a sympathetic smile, "but you know it's just as well ...Susan would probably have said no-"

"I don't _want_ to go anyway," she declared passionately, "I'd rather remain here and take care of a _real_ friend!" and she looked at Ken with a burning scorn. He turned away for the briefest moment before remembering that unlike Rilla he was not a child.

"Don't be like that, my little spider-" he looked into her face now, and she glared at him with eyes like bonfires.

"I am not your ... _anything_, Kenneth Ford," she spat, "and I never, _ever_ will be!"

**... ... ...**

There are parties and there are parties. Ones you attend with your feet dragging ...that you leave at dawn with your heels in your hand. And ones you can't wait to attend ...and then find yourself wondering that only an hour has passed. Unfortunately, the Blythes, the Merediths, and Kenneth Ford were mired in the latter.

After all the toasts to Walter and to _'The Sun Rescinds_', then to parents and friends and reviewers -let them be kind, lest Walter be sent to an untimely grave like that poor John Keats- no one had much of an appetite. They sat round the table picking and sipping as the conversation turned predictably to war; because rightly or wrongly it was foremost on their minds. But also because other more prickly conversations must wait.

For instance Nan wondered, did Jerry really have to leave before the cheese course so that he could help his father go over tomorrow's sermon?

"Some of us have work to do," he had said rather darkly.

"But it's Sunday tomorrow!" Ken exclaimed, pouring a drink.

"I meant _God's_ work," he replied.

And there was not a hint of that lopsided grin on his face, or much of a one on Jem's, when Jerry insisted that Faith come home with him.

Well, Nan supposed she might at least steal Di away to chat about this mad pash Ken Ford had for -of _all_ people- Gertrude Oliver! She was ages older than he was and more importantly than that, she had an _understanding_ with a banker in Charlottetown. Who should be the one to tell him that _Miss_ Oliver was soon to become _Mrs_ Grant?

But Di was talking about of all things, _fishing lures,_ with Jerry's younger brother, Carl. Even though Nan had been staring at Di in that 'we need to talk' sort of way, Di it seemed would rather argue over the comparative merits of grubs versus winged insects! And didn't Carl have such a lot to say about that?

This all came, of course, of that darkling Jerry Meredith up and leaving so mysteriously. Only three days ago they had been debating on the porch steps till eleven! And when Father met up with their red cheeked selves (on his way back from a chamber pot vigil -waiting for Emlyn MacAllister to pass his mother's tiger's eye brooch -"it looked like a caramel!") he gave Jerry an unexpected but hearty pat on the back.

"Why ever did you do such a peculiar thing?" Nan had asked Gilbert the next morning.

Gilbert laughed, "I thought he needed some encouragement after parrying with you all night. I could hear you from a mile away, Nan Blythe, you went on so long for while I was worried you were talking to yourself. Then to find Jerry Meredith at my doorstep trying to get a word in edgewise ...well, let's say I knew all too well how the poor fellow felt!"

Well, it wasn't everyday you had the chance to sink your teeth into some really meaningful conversation; and Jerry had a way of making her want to declare a white thing black. At least he used to...

And _now_ here she was stuck at this table, an unwilling listener to the kinds of conversations you might just as well have in your sitting room!

"-libellula lydia?-" asked Carl.

"-an unending stalemate-" Jem grumbled.

"-and then tie it in such a way-" Di was explaining.

"-the Piper is drawing his breath-" said Walter, ominously.

And Kenneth Ford pouring himself _another_ drink!

A moonlit stroll home on the arm of her black haired, black eyed boy would have been just the ticket. If only he had asked her. Why, pray tell, didn't _someone_ want to talk to her about _that_?

"Nan, can I tempt you?" Ken asked her now, sliding a tumbler toward her.

Nan fondled the little glass for a moment and swirled the contents round.

"I really shouldn't," Nan said, grumpily. "Actually I won't. And neither should _you_, Kenneth Ford."

"You sound like Persis," Ken smiled.

"Well, we see eye to eye on that at least!" she giggled suddenly.

It was an uncommon talent of the Blythes: to be honest to the feeling within them in one moment, then letting it go with the wind in the next.

"The dress was not to your taste I take it?" Ken asked her, his grey eyes twinkling.

"Or yours!" Nan bit back. "Poor Rilla... you know you were awfully hard on her, Ken."

He didn't need telling. He felt bad for the kid, but it was all a bit of fun, wasn't it? _Wasn't it?_

"Not _awfully_, I hope. I never said anything I haven't said before ...anything that _you_ haven't said before-"

"Yes, but she wasn't _fifteen_ before!"

No, she wasn't.

"Nan!" Di called across the table. Ken and her sister were looking very cosy she noticed. Nan's darling face and attentive nature; she little realised the long line of youths who had fallen under her spell. Not that someone so worldly-wise as Kenneth Ford would succumb to the charms of an Island rose, but still... "Time to go I think. Mother's rostered to do the flowers for the service tomorrow, and we promised to do them in her stead, so we'll have to get up extra early."

"Allow me," Jem said, holding out his elbow and inviting Carl to do the same, "shall we escort you home, m'ladies?"

The four of them left in a little flurry of tapping heels, tangled shawls and unbuttoned jackets. Then the room was left to Walter and Ken, who dragged two armchairs that sat by an empty fireplace over to the large open window; the smell of salt, leaf and coal blowing softly through the room.

Ken sat down opposite his friend and began to unlace his shoe. Walter grabbed his ankle gently and finished the job, then placed it on his knee.

"Sock not too ripe, I hope," Ken joked.

"I assumed that was why you sat by an opened window," Walter quipped, and he closed his eyes and cradled his head with his hands as he always did; as though he struggled to contain all the words inside him, clamouring to be written down.

"So, old man" Ken said, after a while, "published at last."

Walter opened his eyes, but they remained fixed on the ceiling.

"Hardly _at last_, Mr Ford, they accepted me straight away thanks to you. If you hadn't got my foot in the door at your father's publishers-"

"Your foot in the door is all I got you, Walter. The rest you did yourself."

"And you really think it's good?" Walter asked. He stared at Ken now and his cheeks reddened slightly. He hated to look as though he fished for a compliment, Ken's toast had been excruciating enough! But it mattered to Walter in a way he could not articulate that Kenneth Ford liked what he had written.

"My father almost wept," Ken said. And he wondered, not for the first time, if the literary genius that was Owen Ford hadn't wished for just a moment that his own son might have written something half so brilliant.

"But what about _you_?" Walter insisted.

What was it with these darned Blythes? Was there something in the Ingleside water that caused their eyes to see into your very soul like that? Ken poked about in his pocket and pulled out a slim silver case.

"There was an inexcusable split infinitive, and I question the choice of type set ...but other than that-"

"Ratbag!"

"I only know how to edit this stuff, I could never actually _write_ it!" and he snapped a match in one slick stroke, and fired the end of his cigarette. "Care for one?" he asked Walter, who shook his head emphatically.

"Are you planning on corrupting all the fine young Blythes while the Doctor is away? I saw you plying Nan with alcohol-" he teased.

"-I was being a good host."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I keep forgetting we're playing by the Island rules now, aren't we? I suppose I'll read about our engagement in the 'Glen Notes' tomorrow," Ken said archly, flicking a length of ash out the window.

"Not unless you fancy pistols at dawn with a certain minister's son..." said Walter, raising his eyebrows. "But you can take your pick from the rest of my darling sisters... I for one, would adore you for a brother-"

Ken inhaled so hard he scorched the back of his throat, and made several uncomfortable and unappealing hacks before he could catch his breath again.

"I take it I'm not the first brother to try and marry off one of his sisters to you," Walter laughed, handing his friend a drink.

Ken tossed the rest of his cigarette into the street below, and took a short swig with a nod of thanks.

"Your sisters are in need of no such assistance. Jerry's eyes are firmly fixed -though whether Nan sees it is another matter. And Di, well ...you can be fairly sure that when it comes to Di, it will be _she_ that does the choosing!"

That she will, Walter thought to himself; he could comfortably offer Di's hand when he knew there was no danger of actually losing her. He wondered if any man could ever win her heart. Though it seemed to him his youngest sister longed to offer hers.

"And Rilla-my-Rilla..?"

Ken looked at Walter blankly and slid his foot to the floor. "Rilla-your-Rilla?" he said, with a studied air of incomprehension.

"Is she?" Walter asked him baldly. "Is she Rilla-_your_-Rilla?"

Those damnable Blythe eyes always peering into things that shouldn't be looked upon.

"I should say not. Rilla is a child!"

"Aren't we all," was all Walter would say.

**… … …**

"I am _not_ a child!"

Rilla fell upon the counterpane and thumped her fist into it angrily. Silver light from a high moon poured through the window of her little room and lit upon her face, washing away the red in her eyes and cheek with more success than the woman next to her who tried to wipe away her tears.

"There, there darling," Gertrude Oliver said, her low voice more from tiredness than gentleness, "I didn't think he called you one exactly."

"No, he didn't. He didn't _have_ to. He said the party was for _grown-ups_! And _then_ he invited Shirley and Una!" Rilla declared, her face a perfect picture of contempt.

"Knowing they wouldn't come-" Gertrude reasoned, trying to stifle a yawn.

"That's not the _point!_"

"Well my darling, what _is _the point? You've been going round in circles now for hours, then falling into a heap of tears. And just when I think you've come to some sort of resolution you fire up all over again."

"I can never forgive him, Miss Oliver," Rilla said, her hazel eyes large with the import of her words. "I know it's terribly wicked of me but he hurt my feelings _excruciatingly_." *

Gertrude wondered if now was the time for one of those hearty moral lessons that teachers were supposed to be so fond of, but was of the opinion that Rilla would only see it as another injustice to rail against; it would only fire her up _again, _and it was already after eleven!

"God will forgive you even if _you_ don't," Gertrude said, comfortably.

"And I won't, I can promise you that. I ...I ...I _hate_ Kenneth Ford!"

She said the word with all the vehemence of profanity, expecting Miss Oliver to chide her severely now -for wasn't she _just_ a child, a _silly little child_ who should be chastised and spanked for such a speech? Her own sweet mother would have looked at her with such awfully disappointed eyes if Rilla had ever dared admit to such a thing.

Indeed Anne Blythe might have revised her high opinion of Gertrude Oliver if she could have heard the woman's response to her baby girl. For Gertrude believed one could not be moved to hate if one hadn't first been moved to love. They were both sides of the same coin in Gertrude's mind. Or in Ingleside parlance; both sides of the same cat!

She flopped back onto Rilla's downy soft bed, and fingered her dark hair thoughtfully, twisting it tightly about her temples which throbbed with a dull little ache.

"Hate him do you?" Gertrude asked, thinking of the handsome man she had glimpsed so far. She supposed it might be quite a thing to hate someone like Kenneth Ford. She was sure she might have hated him herself, ten years ago. "Well, that's alright, then. I was worried that perhaps you _wouldn't_ forgive him -and more worried still that _my_ part in all this was to talk you into it... But now I see there's really no need-"

"-No need..?"

_Where_ was the comfort in that? To be told one could bear hateful grudges until the day one _died_. Why, it didn't help Rilla at all!

"You'll forgive him alright." Gertrude's eyes like little glowing coals of a merry fire whose crackle seemed to laugh at her.

_Oh, but wasn't she wrong about that? _Rilla thought_, _with a disdainful little sniff_. No one understood her, no one knew such a pain as this... And didn't that feel so much better!_

"But he thinks I'm a _child, _Miss Oliver ! And he called me a... a ..._a_ _spider_-" she wailed, luxuriating in the injustice and the cruelty of it all, until another crying jag blissfully ensued.

Gertrude groaned inwardly, pulling herself up and patting poor, old Rilla, as a mother might soothe a colicky babe.

Drat you Kenneth Ford, she thought. Have a care for a poor old teacher with a splitting head -the next time you decide to play the cad save it for someone your own size!

**… … …**

*****Like mother like daughter!

**Thank you for taking the time to read! I hope you come to love the Glen St Mary characters as much as those in Avonlea :o)  
**


	3. Words Said and Not Said

**Chapter three: Words Said and Not Said**

_In which Kenneth Ford has girl trouble; Anne and Walter go hunting; and Rilla and Dog Monday have a waltz..._

_**Hollyhocks, Over-Harbour; August, 1914**_

"You just missed your visitor!" the mistress of Hollyhocks said with a wink, as Kenneth Ford hobbled through the kitchen door.

Ken looked down the long dusty table at the woman who was pummelling the dough for the next morning's bread, her strong brown forearms making short work of the pasty pillow, as she slapped it about with a practiced hand.

"Brown bread or sour dough, Mim?" he asked, giving his cousin a quick peck on her ruddy cheek.

"Neither, as you can see," Miriam West replied. It ever was and ever would be the same fine crumbed, white sort she always made, and utterly unthinkable for her Martin to have his morning marmalade on anything else.

"I was speaking of my visitor," said Ken, and sat down with a look on his face as though butter would have a better chance melting on the unbaked loaves than in his mouth.

"Far be it from me, a mere Over-Harbour girl, to guess what you mean by _that_!"

Mim gave her cousin such a stare now, the sort Persis would give him as she passed the receiver over to her brother when _another_ girl had 'phoned for him; with her chin tucked under and her eyebrows raised. For Kenneth Ford would not have come _all_ the way round to the back of the house -_and_ with a bad foot- unless he'd meant to miss _someone_ coming out the front!

"She brought you these," she announced grandly, dropping four letters down in front of him, a small cloud of flour rising up where they had landed. Ken recognised his sister's writing on the uppermost envelope, but it was the colour of the third one that caught his eye.

Mim put the loaves to bed, observing to her satisfaction that the creeping blush on her cousin's face rightly corresponded to the pinched look on the young Miss who had delivered his mail. It had not escaped anybody's notice -in this kitchen, or in the Glen- that every single letter come to Mr Kenneth Ford this summer had been written by a different woman.

"Now go on with you! I've got to clean the table down, so out to the porch and I'll bring us some tea in a jiff," Mim barked, with a fondness only kith and kin of the Wests could have discerned. "And mind how you open 'em," she called through the screen door that whomped cheekily in her face, "Francis wants them stamps!"

Ken shuffled through the letters quickly and brought out the sage green envelope. The stamp was a real prize for little Frank -a delicate blue filigree, illegible to anyone here but the man who looked at it now. He opened it carefully, pulling out wafer thin pages that enclosed a small, sepia photograph. And he saw her, Naoko, still as beautiful as she was at fifteen, and in her arms the swaddled, sleeping babe, that was her first born son.

"_We named him for my grandfather,"_ Ken read, _"but he is such a big, round, jolly boy, we always call him Kenta. He makes me laugh and think of you!"_

Mim came to the porch now and lowered a heavy tray of tea things onto the small wicker table between two rocking-chairs.

"Anything interesting?" she asked, slipping back into her seat with a well earned oomph.

"Mrs Sato writes with news of her second child, a son," Ken said, holding up the photograph for Mim to have a look at. The picture was given a cursory glance.

"She from that family you stayed with when you were a boy?"

"The Tanaka's, yes. They hosted us in '07, when father took us to live there for a year. We never lost touch..."

He had wanted to. When Tanaka San's daughter would not go against the wishes of her family and spurn the husband meant for her when she turned eighteen, it was a hot headed, heart broken lad who had vowed he would never speak to her again. Ken almost cringed to remember his anguished threats. And the poetry! If Walter Blythe ever saw a line of it he might not care so much for Ken's good opinion.

He sipped at his tea, wondering if there was such a boy in the Glen. Some silly youth who threw pebbles at Rilla's window and made impossible plans for them to run away together, and he flinched; the hot edge of his cup lingering too long on his lip.

There was a light but persistent tap at the front door now, and Mim hauled herself up and strode to the front door. Ken had just opened an invitation to the wedding of Helena Holdstock -the Helena who had once hoped to become the next Mrs Ford- when he heard a shrill voice coming from the kitchen.

"Fancy!" Ethel Reece exclaimed, of the missing hat she could not attend tonight's prayer meeting without. "Well, I was just sure it must be here!"

Miriam West was rather more sure it was not. She remembered very plainly that young Miss Reece took quite some time adjusting that hat, preening in the mirror by the front door in a vain effort to prolong her visit. She heard now the unmistakable squeak of the rocking chair that signalled her cousin was making his escape into the back garden, while Ethel was asking if Kenneth had returned home yet.

"Yes, he _did_ get those letters and was _most_ grateful, Ethel. I'm sure he'll be _very_ sad to have missed you _again_-" Mim said in an overly loud, gregarious voice.

Well! If Leslie's boy was going to leave her in the company of that sly Reece girl for another half hour wouldn't she have something to say about it!

**… … …**

Ken walked under the large spruce that sheltered the chicken run and pulled another letter from his jacket pocket. He was wise enough to save his sister's letter till last, knowing he would be in need of a good laugh after he tackled the next; a lengthy epistle from a girl who had taken to haunting the Ford residence with a fervour that even Ethel Reece might blush at.

Not even stern words from Leslie Ford, a woman never known to suffer fools, could dissuade the lass. In the end his mother had hinted that even though the rest of the family were unable to take up the cottage at Four Winds this year, a quiet visit to the West's Over-Harbour might be just the ticket for her son.

_"Desolate without you... left without a word... scoundrel ...love you madly ...never can forgive you ...can't wait till you get back..."_

And so it went on, for ten pages on both sides. Well that was why he liked her, wasn't it? For her prolific writing! They had attended a few literary events together during that dull winter while his ankle slowly healed. But when one doesn't dance one can spend too much time talking. And Ken had a way of listening, with a focussed look in his long lashed, grey eyes, that made the speaker feel like the only person in the room.

Dear old Daphne! Still perhaps some masterpiece might come from it. Wasn't heartbreak the source of so much literature? He thought of his own little haikus to Naoko; wondering what someone like Rilla might say to such purple declarations, and laughed into the wind.

Beyond the spruce there was wall of thick hedge that separated Hollyhocks from the small dunes beyond, and Ken made his way through there now. Here the Island held up one lone arm against the pounding seas of the Gulf in the shape of mile long bar of shifting, white sand. He found himself continually drawn to this spot and when he stayed at Four Winds would often take a boat out across the short distance from the Light to the bar, and ramble, sit and dream upon the long, golden limb that enclosed the harbour like a mother's arms.

A squally wind played with the sand as he walked now and whipped his hair back as a cat licks her coat. The gold was more grey today and but for his own clothing and muted blues of sky and sea there was no colour at all, save a ribbon of red hair that waved like a banner not a hundred yards from him. He sat near a cluster of sea grass and stared as one might have gazed at a fairy -with equal measures disbelief and relief that such magic did exist in this world.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Ken turned against the wind and saw Walter Blythe standing above him watching the same figure skipping down the beach. He was not so surprised to find him here, he knew Walter liked this place as much as he did. There was a power in this place, like a last gasp of fineness against the brute force of the sea, that answered something inside both of them.

"Is that... is that, Di?" Ken asked him, staring off down the shore.

Walter hunkered down next to him, his open necked shirt plastered against his chest. When Ken gave him a welcoming smile he was thinking how thin the boy looked, how close the typhoid had come to taking him.

"Can you keep a secret?" Walter asked him, his eyes the very Blythest of Blythe.

"You know that I can," Ken replied.

"That's Mother."

"Anne! -Mrs, Mrs Blythe?" He looked back at his friend in surprise.

"She's trying to catch a poem for me-"

"-Catch a poem?"

"You don't do that in Toronto?" Walter asked, with a serious stare.

"You don't do that in P.E.I," he replied, meeting Walter's eyes with his brows raised wryly.

"That's why the secret -if the excellent women of the Ladies Aid knew what Mother got up to..." and he sucked in his cheeks and crossed his eyes; as a smaller, cheekier Jem used to do to keep the small fry from yawning when some well intentioned soul rambled on during Sunday service.

Oh for those days now, Ken thought, when war was never thought of and Rilla Blythe was still in rompers.

"So you need to _catch_ a poem, do you?" he chuckled.

It was the very opposite of what his father often went through. A story took Owen Ford like a raging fever, it seemed to catch _him_.

"We usually run about the beach like lunatics together, but Mother worries I'm not strong enough so she's trying to catch one for me," Walter said, watching his mother as she held up her shawl like a sail against the wind.

Ken turned to where Walter was looking, remembering now the story his mother had told him about the first time she had met the singular beauty that was Anne Blythe; tripping down the shore with a beaming joy that Leslie had both admired and envied. His family owed so much to Anne, and to Gilbert too. Dr Blythe was just a novice in his field, and, in a time when most men would be carefully tending their reputations he had risked both his name -_and Anne's anger-_ to do what he thought was right for Leslie. And the truth had set her free. *

"Look at her," Walter laughed, "like an angel trying to get back to heaven!"

"Your mother has always seemed very much of the earth to me," Ken said, with an affectionate smile, "when Dad told me tales when I was a boy, about a man who loved a tree maiden, I would often picture your parents."

"Not your own?" Walter asked. Ken looked back at him and saw the frank surprise in his friend's face.

"What? No, not at all. Owen Ford is a god, you know," he said drily, "and Mother... Mother is Persephone ...enduring the dark days whilst Dad writes. In thrall to the creative spirit."

"Doesn't sound like much of a life for the one tied to it," said Walter softly. He always enjoyed talking to Ken and yet there was another conversation in his head that he was finding more and more difficult to ignore.

"It rarely is," Ken replied, looking at the crashing surf and thinking of the spite and jealousy endured by their literary friends: the highbrow and the avant garde -misery it seemed, did not discriminate. Anne Blythe whooped at the water now, her voice carried to them through the rushing, salty air. "But you know," he looked at Walter again and grinned, "I think Mother prefers those dark days, because then Father is hers alone. It is when the book is finally out she has to share him with the world again."

Walter began tracing circles in the sand beneath his bare feet. "Mythical indeed..." he uttered quietly.

Ken knew that the boy next to him was not thinking of Leslie and Owen Ford.

"What is?"

"The perfect woman."

"Made of all the gold/ and of all the silver/ made of all the wheat/ and of all the earth/ made of all the water/ and of all the sea/ made for my arms/ made for my kisses/ made for my soul," Ken said, lying back against the incline of the dune. "Sound like anyone you know?" **

Walter was funnelling the fine white sand through his hand as Ken recited the lines of one of his poems; with every word spoken and with each grain that fell through his fingers, there was Faith -golden eyed, silver voiced. Until Ken stopped speaking, and Walter saw his love for the elusive Miss Meredith no more real than what he held in his empty hand.

"Walter darling, where is your sweater?" Anne called out to him now, an impish breeze whipping her skirts about her bare white ankles as she gambolled over to them. "The wind is seething, as though it wanted to get inside you and take shelter from itself. Hello Ken, dear. I see Mrs West made sure you dressed up warm, she's a rarer mother than I!"

Such a woman surely did not exist, Ken surmised, gazing at the flushed and bright eyed face Anne Blythe had blessed her daughters with, and he pulled himself up to greet her.

"We were just discussing the perfect woman..."

Though she was a jolly, capable thing, Anne did not think that Miriam West would quite stretch to that.

"Oh, how dull, I might go back and fetch some seaweed after all. It's very good for our potatoes but it makes an even better cover for our antics, doesn't it, Walter? Some people think" here her eyes darted inland to Lowbridge and the Upper Glen "that barefoot strolls are for dogs and vagabonds, not for Doctor's wives and Redmond scholars. But _you_, dearest boy, were born of the race who knows Joseph, to the most _Josephinan_ of mothers at that! So I dare say you will understand," she laughed, and fell to her knees by Ken's side and ruffled his already wild hair. "We are not here to admire the view, you know," and Anne looked briefly at her son's face to see if she might share their secret, "-but to _catch_ a poem!"

"My net has a few holes in it," Walter added.

"Walter is working on a most exquisite sequence -may I tell him, Walter? I think it has the makings of an epic; we are forever in debate... I always want to add another stanza, and my curious son is always wanting to cut, cut, cut... Oh! the wind this afternoon! I seemed to _eat_ up entire phrases. I hope it won't turn a gale, my little girlio has her heart set on a golden evening for the dance at the Light tomorrow."

"You're letting Rilla go?" Ken asked abruptly.

"We finally wore you down, didn't we, Mother?" Walter said, with a knowing half smile that Ken pretended to ignore.

"She's really too young-" Anne began, in a tone that suggested the only person she was trying to convince was herself. "It was just that I wanted her to have a chance to wear that lovely dress of hers, she worked _so_ hard on it. Though I think it was just as difficult batting Nan away, she _would_ put her oar in! I doubt her sister realises how many times her visits to the sewing room caused Rilla to unpick and re-measure. Though I can't deny she looks a dream... How _could _I say no to her? Who knows when she might have another chance..."

It was not the dress that caused Anne to relent, and everyone older than fifteen knew this. It was war. Crowding out all other thoughts, spoiling and souring the most innocent pleasures -a young girl's bright tomorrows, a woman's softly faded yesterdays. Last month Anne had walked among the beloved haunts of old and for the first time the golden memories of her girlhood were overcome by darker thoughts, as she imagined -horribly, fearfully- what war could have taken from her own blessed girlhood. What her life would have been like without AVIS, and Redmond, and Patty's Place. Without Charlie and Moody and Fred and Roy...

Without Gilbert.

The news today was so discouraging, it would not be long... It already pressed down on her darlings, threatening to destroy the joy that should be theirs; the sweetest joys that belong only to the young. How could she deny her girl? Who knew if the boys Rilla danced with tomorrow would follow the Piper and never return.

Walter suddenly felt his mother's unshed tears prick at his own eyes. There would be enough time to cry, he knew. But not here and not yet. He was determined to make her smile again and if he had to tease the life out of Kenneth Ford then so much the better!

"I think tomorrow means more to her than just a chance to strut about in a new green dress-" he began.

Ken was prompted to say now, "Green? When I think of Rilla I always think of her in white-"

"When you think of Rilla..?" Walter smirked.

Anne joined him, with a quizzical grin. "I suppose now I think of it she always does wear white. The green was surely Nan's influence, though don't you _dare_ to say so!-" Anne demanded of Rilla's beloved big brother, before turning to Ken again, "Funny boy! Fancy you noticing that-"

"Fancy!" Walter repeated.

"I suppose it's because I grew up with Persis," Ken mumbled -horribly unconvincingly Walter thought- "she always chewed my ear about such frivolous things."

"A girl's first dance in not frivolous. You're not so old that you don't remember yours, I bet," and Ken glowered at the black haired boy, both for the smug look in his eyes, and for bringing to mind his awkward effort to teach Naoko the foxtrot.

"A girl's first dance!" Anne said, shuffling her bare feet under skirts, "you sound as though she had a sweetheart, Walter. Rilla is _far_ too young for such a thing."

Rilla's houses were still made of tree stumps not of dreams! Anne thought, neither willing nor wanting to remember how old she had been when those first arrows hit. That piercing sting as a certain hazel eyed boy escorted Ruby Gillis from the station on their weekends home from Queens. The silken flush that fused through her when the same boy stood by her side at Miss Lavender's wedding.

Little Rilla could not possibly know the exquisite pang and softest flutter that was first love.

Anne turned her thoughtful grey eyes from the sea and watched a silent conversation that Walter and Kenneth were caught up in now, her son having the better part of it too, she was glad to see. How happy Ken seemed to make him. She had once thought Jem's claim to his friendship was the stronger. But if Faith answered to a red-gold sun and not a black and silver moon -no one writing poetry with Walter could fail to realise who those sonnets were addressed to- let him at least have dear old Kenneth Ford to make him laugh again.

"You two had better ask her to dance!" Anne said now, poking her finger into their arms playfully.

"Oh, _he's_ not going!" Walter said, gesturing to Ken with a flop of his hair. "_The _Kenneth Ford at a little provincial dance?"

"I might," Ken replied.

"You! What, to help out with the refreshments, hop-a-long?" Walter laughed.

"Mmm, thought I might give Miss Meredith a hand ...minister's daughters don't dance either, do they?"

Anne noticed another look pass between them and decided that now would be a good time to get moving, the breeze was turning quite chill.

"Come on, help your mother up! My own ankle is starting to ache. It's one of the few blessings about broken bones, Ken, even if you can't dance it becomes the best barometer for bad weather," Anne quipped, the green flecks in her eyes like the waves on the sea. "Do you suppose your sister still has our shoes and your sweater?" she asked Walter as he took her hand.

"So Di _is_ here," Ken said, feeling around in his jacket for Persis' letter and settling himself into the little sandy hillock.

"No. Rilla," Anne answered, fussing about with Walter's collar. "Walter are you cold, would you like my shawl? It's fairly plain, no one would know-"

Her son shook his head as vigorously as any eighteen year old might at such a suggestion.

"I'm fine! We'll find Rilla. Dog Monday's not so spry as he once was, if she has wandered from our spot it won't be far. If you should see her, Ken..."

They said their goodbyes and Ken watched the pair head back toward the higgledy assemblage of houses and boats that made up Over-Harbour. He nestled into the sand but somehow Persis's letter found its way back into his pocket again, and he stared into the sea.

So she was here.

He sat, unable to decide whether to look or to hide from her, until the pounding in his chest outdid the waves on the shore and he stood up finally and walked toward his cousin's house. A fine mist fell upon him which he thought the wind had carried from the sea, until it became heavier, and he moved faster now to a clump of unkempt pines that grew where white sand gave way to red earth.

Ken leaned against a weathered trunk, preferring to wait out the shower under a tree than risk another close call with Ethel Reece; biding his time until he was sure she would be expected home for supper. He began a third attempt to read his sister's letter when he saw a flash of white, a foot, a hand, and a little wet dog, scampering through the spindly trees that grew closest to the beach front.

It was Rilla. And worse, it was what his heart did when it was Rilla; accelerating wildly as though it gulped for blood the way his mouth gulped for air. He shrank back momentarily, unable to move, unable to stop himself peering through the trees in hope of another glance at her. Since that day in July Ken had only allowed himself the barest moments in her company; a nod at church, a wave if he saw her on a common road, then he would turn away. This was made easier by the fact she was clearly annoyed at him. Rilla did not forgive him his little snub and was quite satisifed to maintain the distinction of being horribly hurt by that caddish Toronto boy. Such a dedicated grudge helped him greatly, yet he did not feel the benefit.

It was light and it was dark; it was joy and it was sorrow.

Because somehow, infuriatingly, her anger toward him only made him think of her the more; made him regret his words and wish she would smile at him, instead of cock her brow so gorgeously, and glare.

There had never been such an opportunity to gaze at her like this, and he drank her in the way sand drinks rain. She had pulled Walter's pale blue sweater over her white summer dress; her slender wrists poking sweetly from fatly rolled up cuffs, and shapely legs kicking up the spattered hem of her skirts as she ran along the beach. If her thoughts were on tomorrow's weather the expression on her face didn't show it.

Her damp hair stuck in little lengths across her cheeks, which the rain had painted softest pink and a deeper shade upon her lips. She was laughing and calling to the scruffy little dog, tossing pine cones and drift wood for to him to retrieve from the waves. Presently, Dog Monday caught the scent of something and wandered into the piney glade, Rilla following after a moment, sheltering from the thickening drizzle. Then all at once her hand went to an invisible shoulder and another to an unseen hand, and she was waltzing upon a pine needle carpet with a dreamy look in her wet lashed eyes. As her dog came sniffing at her toes Rilla scooped him up and danced him round the trees. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his muzzle, murmuring to him quietly-

"You'll dance with me, Monday, you'll dance with me, boy, even if no one else does!"

Ken sucked his lip as he watched her and raked back his dark, wet hair. Monday grew tired of her circles and when she released him Ken thought he would go to her now; go to her and take her hand and dance with her in the rain. He longed to see her face so close to him, looking up at him; dapple cheeked and wet skinned, and her eyes; no longer dark with anger, but aglow with a want he had glimpsed at once before.

It was no girlish welcome she had tried to give to him that afternoon at Ingleside. The look in her eyes -he could admit that now- was not one that was given to a playmate. Ken Ford knew enough about women to know that. Rilla's eyes asked Ken a question that dusk in July. And they asked it the following dawn. Asked him in the church and the ale house, by the hearth and by the sea. The answer burnt inside him, yet he was terrified to speak.

He took a step toward her, as a cold hand to a fire. He could almost feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips -how slight her waist, how light her hand- and he swayed now at the thought of his body moving with her, and against her: to hold her in his arms not as a boyhood chum, but as a boy. Her boy. And she his Rilla.

Rilla-my-Rilla, the beats of his heart now. Rilla-my-Rilla. Rilla-my-Rilla...

Ken took another step and Dog Monday growled, because of him or something else he was uncertain. Rilla grabbed the bedraggled creature up into her arms again and turned to leave, then glanced back in his direction once more. The fierce, bright challenge that flashed in her eyes, at whoever or whatever was hiding from her, was the last thing Kenneth Ford saw, before she disappeared from his sight, out toward the shore.

She was gone.

And so was he. Gone, gone, gone on Rilla Blythe.

**… … …**

* To find out all about it read Anne's House of Dreams (the story of Leslie Moore and Owen Ford is the most bittersweet and lovely of all Montgomery's I think)

** Stolen lines from "Fickle One" in The Captain's Verses by Pablo Neruda (swoon swoon)

**Thank you for all reading so far ...the dance at the Light is next!**


	4. Hesitating Beauty

**Chapter four: Hesitating Beauty**

_In which Rilla Blythe causes a proper sensation, and Ken is overwhelmed by improper ones._

**_Hollyhocks, Over-Harbour; the following evening..._**

"You've not tied that right-" Miriam West called out to her cousin as he attempted to set off for the evening, "come here and let me fix it for you."

Kenneth looked back, his hand still on the door handle, the turning of which would enable his escape from another fussing woman. Yet he stood and waited as Mim exited the front parlour, a long box of matches in her hand for the lighting of the lamps in that room.

"Here, take these," Mim said, with the air of one forever being called from important tasks so that the bow ties of useless young men might be straightened, and pressed the carton into his hand."Whatever were you thinking of when you tied that thing..?" she smirked, and went to work on the knot at his collar. "Anyone would think you were drunk! Did you break some bones in yer hands as well as yer foot? No need to think we don't have the same standards of neatness and decorum Over-Harbour as they do in your big-"

Mim stopped suddenly and bit her tongue, not because she felt she'd gone too far but because she'd come to the fiddly part. Ken watched her bob about in the hallway mirror as a perfect black bow was made around his neck.

"There. That's better." She took the matches back from him. Ken pinched the silk fabric between his thumbs and fingers and nestled the tie against his collar.

"Much," he said, "thanks for that." And stood before his reflection for long moment; looking, _staring_ even, Mim thought, as though he hardly recognised the man looking back. Whatever had come over the boy? He looked positively moony.

"Out the _front_ door this time, I see-"

"Well spotted, Miriam. I need to use it on order to leave the house."

"Ain't they all walking along the back way, and rowing to the Light?"

She knew as well as he did that a large party of Over-Harbour youths were even now gathering along the shore behind their house. Mim could almost feel the keen stares of certain persons craning to see when Kenneth Ford would make his appearance.

"I asked Leo for the buggy. Ankle's playing up-"

"Why on earth you're going to a dance is beyond my comprehension!"

Ken was content to keep her puzzling, and after a quick kiss by the yellow hair that bloomed about her temples, strode toward Mim's nephew's place.

He quickly hitched the horse but did not head directly to the Light, veering the old mare toward Harbour Head and trotting for some distance along a ribbon of road that connected the shabby village to a bustling peninsula of boats and warehouses. Here Ken was afforded a fairytale view of the Lighthouse, its lamp yet a watery beam in the sunset, and watched as coloured paper globes were lit around a large pavilion. The Montreal Lewisons had it made especially it was said -in the hushed and reverent tones of _no expense spared_. Hosting a dance provided many a summering family the opportunity to impress their position and style upon the dear harbour folk; where great wealth and the less tangible -though conceivably just as valuable- riches of Island life could be celebrated in one tasteful event.

In silhouette upon a coppery sheet of sea were boats being rowed with all the show of youthful competition from the sandbar to the Four Winds Point. The warm gulf breeze ruffled Ken's hair and flapped at his dinner jacket as he watched them, carrying the noise of boys and girls who sailed with expectant faces and excited hearts. Ken did not think _Is she there?_ He knew she was; knew it as surely as if he had a spyglass to his eye and saw her face, those eyes. He did not even think _Will she -should I ask her- will she dance with me? _He knew, with equal certainty she would; as all girls, especially those who hated the very sight of him, would nevertheless take his hand whenever he chose to offer it. He did not even think that he would turn back, though as his cousin pointed out he had fair excuse. He only sat, and meant to continue sitting, as though the thorough contemplation of how the bench-seat felt beneath his thighs and how the reins felt between his fingers were the only things between him and annihilation: between remaining strong, whole and upright, and being blown over by a little puff of light.

All things pertaining to Leo West's buggy were still very much in Ken's thoughts as he tethered old Sukey with the other horses and walked toward the shining monument that was the Four Winds Lighthouse. He even found himself sniffing his hands incase the smell of old greasy leather could have left its imprint upon his skin. His fingers felt icy as they brushed against his face and he rubbed them together impatiently; a tiny fear forming at the back of his mind that they might feel cold and clammy when he asked her to dance.

_So, _Ken realised with a sort of jolt, it was not to be _if_ but _when_. Well of course _when_! There was no question now -never had been- that he would ask Rilla to dance. He would simply go up there, search her out among the nervous wallflowers who waited anxiously for a partner and ask her to dance. It would be rude not to! Hadn't Mrs Blythe practically demanded it of him? He would dance with the kid just as he would dance with Nan and Di. He would be the teasing, watchful playmate he had always been and imagined himself now, as he made his way carefully up the stone cut staircase that lead to the Light, scaring away the lanky youths who hoped they had a chance with her. He could already see the look Rilla would give him, her brow cocked, her lips in a cross little pout. While he would laugh, as she always made him laugh.

There was not much to laugh at when he came to the top of the stairs. Little Rilla Blythe was being whirled around by some tall lad with a sun-browned face that went at once from deepest delight to darkest despair as another boy tapped his shoulder and begged Rilla for his partner. Ken had not been there a minute before he had seen her in the in the arms of three such boys, and a brief glance around the edges of the dance floor showed many more meant to have the pleasure of her company before the night ended.

Faces all seemed focussed on Rilla -though the girls could not be said to bear the same rapt expression. She was rather too beautiful, too radiant, too happy to elicit the same pleasure from them. The female portion looking as if they tried to find fault with the girl; as though one could blame a rose for smelling too sweet, or a sunset for glowing too pink. Ken stared at Rilla too, as lost as any of those boys he had smugly imagined fending off, and with an envy equal if not in substance then at least in strength to any of the girls.

Rilla floated gracefully amongst them without a care for their wide eyed gazes and their narrow eyed glares, or any show that she had noticed Kenneth Ford arrive at all. Others had been rather more observant, one sidled up against him now with a conspiratorial cosiness that came of hearing all about Ken and Rilla's mutual loathing.

"Would you look at Rilla Blythe?"

Ken did not need to be told. He managed a small glance at Ethel Reece's nose before resuming his gaze at the girl in question.

"Hardly proper letting a _child_ come to a dance. But then the Blythes always did think themselves above the rules. Look at her fizzing about with that silly smile on her face, I almost feel embarrassed for her."

"You're not dancing." Ken was careful to make his words sound like a statement than an invitation, but Ethel made of it what she could.

"You goose! Don't you go dragging me onto the floor when you've a bad ankle. How is it by the way?"

"Much the same as when you asked me this morning."

"Poor Ken, how tiresome having to make an appearance at such a modest affair. Look at this hokey little dance floor -roofed in _fir boughs_ of all things, as though we Islanders didn't expect any better! And that fiddler! Didn't the Lewisons know ol' Ned can play nothing but jigs and reels. What a pity we cannot show them how it's _really_ done, Ken. I don't suppose you could manage a slow waltz... Perhaps, if I had a word in Mrs Lewison's ear..?" Her offer was met with such a silence Ethel was compelled to continue, "I suppose it was those Blythes that made you come -just like them to be always thinking of pleasure first."

"Mmm, the Blythes are a real riot."

Again, Ethel was left wondering what it was he really meant. If only he would take his eyes off that green-dressed ninny twirling in front of him for all her worth she might secure his attentions. When Ken lifted himself upon the railings that had been built to stop the party dancing into the sea, clever Miss Reece saw her chance.

"Oh, dear! Oh poor girl. Oh, look -oh, no _don't_ look, Ken! Poor Rilla! Will _no one_ tell her? Where are all those Blythes now? Off making sheep's eyes at the Merediths, no doubt, while their poor little sister is _humiliated_ before all-"

"What's up?" Ken asked her. After managing the precarious task of balancing himself on the top of the rail he did not mean to come down again without sufficient cause.

"Oh. Well, I mustn't say. _Not_ to a gentleman. Except that Rilla is in danger of exposing herself without _anyone_ to warn her. Her dress -all the buttons must have popped off the back-"

"Yikes, I should get over there-" Ken said, motioning to climb down.

"No!" Ethel yelped, little imagining such a turn of events. She had meant to remove that ruddy haired snippet from his notice, not coax them closer together. "Let me, Ken. It is for a _woman _to tell her -it would only embarrass her more if _you_ were to say something. Laws, there is some sort of stain on it too, did you see? Looks like the poor girl's night is fairly over now. Unlucky little duck," she said, with a feeling verging on pity, as she pictured Rilla leaving the Light in hot-faced disgrace, "she was having such a nice time, too." And Ethel pressed into the heave of dancers with a haste that showed she rather relished the task of ruining it for her .

Ken did not see their conversation, only Rilla's figure racing back toward the Lighthouse, her long pale arms clutching the back of her skirts. If such a hole or stain existed it was nothing her small hands couldn't cover with ease, and Ken suspected Ethel might have overstated the damage. In any case Rilla would probably go home now, her girlish embarrassment was bound to be too large a thing to be gotten over so quickly. Ken did not know if he was annoyed or relieved, though he had to admit all interest in this little spree had wained to nothing now that Rilla had gone. He slid down from his perch and began the awkward jostle back to the stone steps when he was hooked once again.

"Kenneth Ford, fashionably late I see," Hazel Lewison exclaimed, a saucy look in her her kohl rimmed eyes. "We've missed you dreadfully on _this_ side of the Gulf. Poor you, having to slum it Over-Harbour _all_ summer. Ethel Reece would have it that it's all on _her_ account, you know. Fancy a little bumpkin like her wearing a colour like that!" Hazel added, as though the Lewisons had exclusive right to the wearing of red. "She's gone to scare up a waltz from the violinist Mother hired. What a joke if you should ask _me_ instead!"

Ken turned and spied by Hazel's scarlet silk shoulder a view of Rilla descending the stairs, tripping lightly and confidently not to the exit as he had expected, but back toward the dance. She was neither flushed nor ruffled, in truth she looked more radiant than ever. Ethel's little barbs had no effect at all it seemed, and he smiled with no small admiration and much to Hazel's delight.

"Sorry Nutkin, gotta scoot-" Ken murmured, all thoughts now on securing the girl in the green dress for the first slow dance of the evening. If he would do it he would do it now -oh, would these people not clear the way for him? He strained to follow her small figure through the crowd, wary some other lad might nab her at any moment.

The sickening lurch inside Miss Lewison did not abate -even if Ken Ford had not, as she had first feared, passed her over for the girl who had dared,_ dared_ wear Hazel's signature colour- as she watched him make his way to someone altogether much worse. Of course it _would_ be a Blythe; if there was any prize to be had on this little rock then the Blythes were sure to win it. Though it was not to the uncommonly pretty Nan or her vivacious sister, Di, to whom Ken walked toward now; but to the littlest sister. The gangly, freckly one, who still wore her dresses short and her hair long -she couldn't even be out yet! Hazel wasn't even sure of her name.

Rilla was looking at him. _Was she looking at him?_ Just when Ken thought he had caught her eye, she would lower a thick fan of lashes and turn her head to the floor. He begged pardon for the third time when he felt her eyes upon him again and saw a look of recognition now, before she turned away. Ned Burr began to tune his instrument for the Hesitation and the floor began to clear; yet Rilla remained where she was, standing, waiting, for Ken to make those last steps toward her. Everything and everyone around them disappeared, and there was nothing else. No curious eyes or wagging tongues, no lantern light nor salt-sweet breeze; nothing but her eyes reeling him softly yet assuredly toward her.

Those last two steps seemed miles long and when he reached her his heart pounded as though it had run such a distance. There was nothing between them now, the green of Rilla's skirts pressing into the black of his trousers. Ken had not been this close to her since that dusky afternoon when he had looked up at her face and saw _that_ look -the same look she was giving him now. His body melted the same way too, and yet every bone and each sinew was pulled tightly to attention.

Rilla placed her hands in front of her and his gaze travelled slowly up her slender arms capped in gauzy puffs, noticing how her hair was pulled back in a softly woven knot that accentuated the creamy skin of her shoulder and throat. The tiny seed pearls on her lobes bobbed about as she moved from one silver shod foot to the other and her dress brushed over his legs. The sensation went through him like a bolt. Rilla must have felt something too for she looked up at him now, and Ken saw her eyes glow with an exquisite intensity before she glanced downward again.

The opening bars of the Hesitation waltz rang through the pavilion now in tones of pure longing. Still she stood, even as others whirled about and whispered; allowing this strange silence to exist between them. Ken swallowed hard and looked at her, wanting so much to take her hand in his and yet fearing he did not have the right. He wanted her, all of her -the light and the dark. If only she would look at him again.

"Is this Rilla-my-Rilla?" he asked her now, a hot flush searing his cheeks as he realised the unintended emphasis of the _my _in his greeting. It ignited into a heated rush when Rilla Blythe looked straight into his eyes and answered with a gorgeous candour that indeed she was. She did not play with him, neither did she eagerly seek his approval; she simply looked down at her shoes again -as though in this there was nothing left it be said, in this they understood each other. Ken was transfixed, and when he asked her to dance she replied in such a way as to make him feel the fool for even having to ask.

Her hand was in his and he stepped back awkwardly, cursing his ankle anew. Ken had meant to show his mastery and elegance on the dance-floor and now began to fear he might not manage more than a clumsy shuffle. He found himself mentioning it now; the very injury he was so bored of being asked about that he had threatened to wear a placard around his neck declaring the foot's condition for everyone to see. Yet when the girl in his arms made her own polite inquiries it did not seem dull at all but sweetly reassuring; as if she said: _Don't worry, Kenneth Ford, I know you can dance better than this._

Rilla stared hard at her hand resting lightly on Ken's shoulder. To look over it would be to notice all those people watching them. They might go by in a blur but there was no mistaking the surprise on their faces. _Look at them, look at them, look at them! _they all seemed to say, in perfect three-quarter time. And yet to look up seemed equally impossible. She hadn't realised before how tall Ken was, how she would have to stretch her neck and point her chin at him in order to see his face. This might have been remedied had her partner held her loosely, she could have moved back and been able to gaze at Ken with more ease. But he pulled her to him with such strength and purpose, held her so close she could feel his breath though the flowers in her hair when he spoke -it was only of common little things- but the flutter it caused went straight through her.

And the smell of him! It had never occurred to her that Ken Ford would have his own particular smell. He was so different to her brothers, to her father; they always seemed so crisp and leafy. Ken was made of something altogether different, it was woody, musky, almost heady. She grasped his shoulder -how broad it was, what a lot there was to hold onto- wishing she could stay here in his arms forever. Willing away any other boy who might interrupt them now and rob her of this bliss.

Ken was having similar thoughts. As the bittersweet melody concluded he knew this small, perfect moment between them must end, and he would have to watch Rilla walk away and into the arms of some other boy. He pressed his hand firmly about her waist, savouring the feel of her warm body. There was nothing tiny or frail about her, she felt long and lithe, like her smooth white throat that she tilted toward him when she spoke.

"Thank you, Ken," she murmured, peering up at him through her eyelashes. She drew her hand from his shoulder but noticed how he kept her other hand firmly in his.

"Come with me?" he asked her, and when she beamed in reply he tucked her arm about him and made for the cut stone stairs. They wove among the boys without partners and the girls with pinched toes who rested on the rocks. It was not long before they were at the dock where flats and dories lined up like fishes on a line.

"Pick one," Ken said, motioning at the boats bobbling on the water.

"Are you taking me home?" Rilla asked.

"What? No, not at all. In fact far from it."

She smiled at him, it was the smile of a child -full of mirth and mischief. "Well... in that case I choose the yellow flat!"

Ken helped her into her seat and then eased the boat from its mooring. After a couple of strong, swift strokes he lifted the oars out of the water and balanced them so that he could remove his jacket.

"Would you mind, Rilla?" he asked her now, and she took it from him and pressed it into her lap. It still bore the scent and warmth she had thrilled at when they danced. Ken bit back a little smile as he watched her stroke the fabric as though it was a cat.

Rilla was only too glad to have something to turn her attention to. She sat facing Ken, all else was in darkness, save the long bridge of light that beamed from behind him. There was nothing else to look at but the handsome young man in his white shirt working the oars, so she fussed with his jacket instead.

"It's very nice."

"Beautiful," Ken said.

"I suppose to a man it would be."

"That's funny, I would have thought the admiration of scenery very much the province of the female sex."

Rilla looked up, plainly startled by such a bold phrase, and saw Ken too had a look of puzzlement on his face. They held each other's gaze for some minutes, the stroke of the oars like the pulse of the waltz; their world made of the two of them and nothing else. It was Ken who broke away first, looking beyond her to the long arm of white sand that beckoned their boat, and Rilla giggled suddenly.

"I was talking of your jacket, Ken. Your jacket is _very nice! _Not that the scenery isn't, of course. Only I've had lots of opportunities to appreciate the scenery-"

"-But not so many holding a man's jacket."

The way he called himself a man; the way he stared at her when he said it. Rilla carefully traced her finger around the lip of each shiny black button until the blush on her cheek abated.

"Not so many, but enough... Remember how you and Jem would get me to hold your clothes, and then make me sit with my back to the pond while you went swimming?"

It was Ken's turn to blush now.

"You were always a good kid," he said at last.

"Do you think I'm still a good kid?"

There was no possibility of Ken answering that. Fortunately geography interrupted them.

"Shall we land here for a spell or would you rather turn and go back?"

Rilla turned abruptly to see the bar loom large behind her, the sand glowed as whitely as Kenneth's shirt.

"Oh, let's go ashore, Ken! That is if..." she was loathe to mention his ankle again, she looked down at her own feet and hoped her little silver slippers could manage the ramble.

"Sure thing! Hey, what say in the spirit of those days at the pond we leave our shoes here?"

"Agreed!" Rilla said with some relief, thinking of how blissful the cool sand would feel on her poor sore feet. Unfortunately they looked as bad as they felt. There was no way Kenneth Ford was going to get a look at such a blistered mess, and she squeezed them on again, swiftly and regretfully. Ken took rather more time unlacing his, all the while thinking what a brilliant girl was Rilla Blythe; so direct, so adventurous, so overwhelmingly lovely.

She disembarked from the flat with the expert leap of an Island girl and skipped along the sand. Ken watched her intently as she moved along the shore, then reached for the dinner-jacket that lay on her seat, grasping at it distractedly. He was used to seeing Rilla's hair worn long over her shoulders and was breathless at the sight of the moonlight on her bare skin. A desire to hold her in his arms again, to kiss every place the moonlight touched her burst within him. He yanked his jacket on and buttoned it up with a rough impatience. _What a fool he was. A fool -in a bespoke dinner suit and bare_ _feet_.

"Come _on_!" Rilla called, then in a sudden change of heart came running back to the boat and held her hand out to him. "I was forgetting," she grinned, "you might need some help yourself."

Ken grasped her hand gratefully and as they touched saw the unmistakeable fire in her eyes. He looked away quickly to the deepening sky above, to the long white path ahead, but saw nothing else.

Just the dark and the light. Just the two of them. Only heaven could help him now.

… … …

**Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I promise not to make you wait so long for the next chapter -where Rilla and Ken take a stroll along the starry, deserted beach...**


	5. Call to Arms

_With love and gratitude to L.M.M -everything is hers, only this idea is mine_

**Chapter five: Call to Arms**

_In which Ken and Rilla discuss poetry, fashion, toys and shoes ...anything except what they are really thinking about_

_**Four Winds Point; August 4th 1914**_

"You changed your mind."

"I did?" said Rilla.

She dropped Kenneth's hand in confusion and he took the opportunity to pull the boat further up the sandbank, yanking at it as though expecting high tide.

"Your shoes," he said then, brushing his hands against his thighs.

The two of them peered at the glittering slippers on Rilla's feet as though neither had seen such a thing before.

"Oh! Yes, well... I was forgetting myself -as well as you it seems! Only little children go about barefoot and I'm not a child anymore," she told him, with all the ladylike grace she thought befit the situation.

Ken stifled a smile and looked at his own feet, which were as white and bare as the sand they stood on.

"Oh no, please don't take me to mean that you should-" Rilla began to blush. Silly, irrelevant girl -why did everything that came out of her mouth sound like nonsense of the highest order? Was there even such a thing? Surely nonsense was _disordered_, it would hardly count as nonsense otherwise -the clue was in the word itself! Though why she should be thinking of this _right now ..._on a moonlit beach ...with Kenneth Ford!

"-take some years off me," Ken was saying, "and our ages will meet somewhere in the middle."

"Mmmm," Rilla murmured. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention that ankle _again_. How unfair that everyone else was so unimaginative that she should have to censor herself from the same remark.

Well that joke got the reaction it deserved, Ken thought. Of all the times to bring up their age difference he had to do it now, on a deserted shore. If he didn't take more care she would begin to worry about his intentions. _And what were they exactly?_ Ken asked himself as he offered his arm to her. To be with Rilla was to be constantly pulled in by desire, only to draw back in fear. He was no better than the waves that rushed at their feet and retreated again. The same waves that Rilla now listened to intently; trying to calm her wildly beating heart by breathing in time with the tide. In and out, in and out...

Ken looked down at her and she peeped up briefly. It was usually about this time that a young lady on the arm of Ken Ford would ask him what kept him so quiet -or worse, what he was thinking about. To his relief and not some wonder Rilla did not. They carried on wordlessly until they reached the place where he had sat with Walter and Mrs Blythe the previous afternoon. It was a favourite spot and for want of something to say he asked if they might rest there for a moment.

They sat down together but the closeness they found in the crowded pavilion seemed impossible now they were alone. Her pale green skirts splayed prettily across the sand, but this time Ken took a great deal of care that he shouldn't come up against one sprig of the pale pink garlands printed on the green fabric.

"I was here yesterday," he said. He had been unsure whether he should mention this or not, but was even more weary of all the second guessing he was putting himself through. This was Rilla Blythe, after all. It was not so long ago that she had ridden him like a white steed across the green of Rainbow Valley.

"I know," Rilla replied, tucking a wavering curl behind her ear.

"You do?"

"Mother mentioned it. She asked if I had seen you."

This question had been put to her not long after Anne had demanded to know where on earth she had been? Because of her poor Walter had to walk home in the rain without his sweater! Rilla declared feeling equally put upon having to trudge back to Ingleside with _all _their shoes. However none of this needed mentioning right at this moment.

"What did you say?" Ken asked quietly.

"That I hadn't, of course!"

"No. Of course," Ken replied. It was he who had seen altogether too much of her, bare legged and dewy faced... He began to pick at the tussock that billowed out near his elbow. "Remember making those little straw horses?"

Remember? Rilla still had the little set; the father, the mother, and the tiny foal tucked in the little wooden box that was their stable."Oh, yes," she said, as though she only now recalled he had ever made her such a thing.

They began a game of 'do you remember' now, and both entered into it with all the enthusiasm of two people who did not, could not, talk of the here and now. When all their favourite recollections had been laughed at and sighed over Rilla was hugging at her knees with her skirts tucked tightly around her, and Ken began tracing his finger along the tiny rose wreaths on the hem of her dress.

"Beautiful."

"Are we talking about our clothes again, or the scenery?"

She was resting her chin upon her knees, as many a girl from the Blythe clan had been known to do. And then tilted her face toward him with a look in her eyes that was all Rilla.

"Your dress, of course!" Ken exclaimed, a little too heartily. He dropped her skirt and leaned back on his arms so that Rilla's face was hidden by her hair. "Your Mother told me how hard you worked on it."

"It's true. I did. But not for any _grand _reason, not like Persis. I didn't design it, I didn't even pick the fabric. Sorry to be a bore, I don't expect you to pity the trials of such a spoiled little brat as myself, but I am bound to tell you that I only worked so hard upon it because that's what people do at Ingleside. They all have such grand passions for things -if there aren't enough hours in the day then there's something wrong with you-"

"There's nothing wrong with you!-"

"Oh but there is. I am a complete and utter dunce, you know. And even worse-"

"Worse?"

"I don't even care. Well only so much as it bothers Mother and Father. But as for me..."

Rilla went quiet again. She tucked her dress about her so completely there was not toe to be seen. The two of them sat and watched the waves wash the shore, rippling back and forth like lace at an open window, the seventh one smashing through it like so much glass.

"I know what you mean," Ken said now.

"About what?"

"About what you were saying before. There are too many hours in my day, too. I don't suppose you'd give me such a sympathetic ear either, when a man may do so much more than a woman -I said _may_ do, not _can_ do!" he laughed, when he saw the appalled look on Rilla's face, "I only meant I haven't the excuse you have. I could do anything, there is no one to stop me, and a hundred people who would gladly smooth my path ahead. But if anything that makes it worse... I want to make my _own_ path-"

"Your own path?" Rilla wasn't sure she quite understood -well that was a dunce for you. But she had noticed that if you repeated the last line that someone said it seemed to do the trick.

"Exactly," Ken smiled, and shifted himself forward, the little chestnut curl had fallen by Rilla's cheek again and he went to pull it back before remembering himself. "It's hard to live with someone else's idea of who you should be."

"Like when people still treat you like a child, even though you're practically grown up..."

"I was wondering when you would mention that. I am sorry, Rilla."

"Good," was all she said.

She meant it too. It was good, it was all so very good. She smiled at him, and it was open and generous and beautiful, there was just that curl that snagged so slightly on her lashes and wavered with the wind over her eyes. His hand went up to her face again, Rilla felt it trace along her eyebrow and move the tendril away. She looked down as he did it, she could not look up again for some time.

"Shall we continue?" Ken asked.

_Continue! _Oh was she to be nothing more than a little echo to his fine thoughts? It was only that she was even more wildly uncertain what he meant than ever before. Continue? Continue to sit? To walk? To caress her face in that tantalising way so that even now she could feel his touch upon her skin?

"I would like to Ken, if you would ...if you're sure," she finally managed to say.

"Very," he said.

Evidently Ken had been asking if she had wanted to keep walking with him because he suddenly stood up, and Rilla hastily tried to slip her feet back into her shoes. She had pried them out whilst they were hidden under her skirts, and buried her toes in the cool white sand. Now she endeavoured to wriggle into them again, as Ken looked on with his hand outstretched waiting to help her up. How very odd she must have appeared to him, she thought; quickly followed by how wonderful his hand felt in hers, how large and smooth and strong. It brought about such a feeling inside her she could now see why it might be quite the scandal after all, to be caught holding hands with a boy. Not that Ken was a boy, of course-

"We'll be back at Hollyhocks before we know it!" he announced, with an unexpected enthusiasm.

Oh, he wouldn't invite her in to tea with the Wests would he? Rilla would have rather rowed back alone than be winked at by Miriam West! She couldn't have borne the little looks and smirks she should be given, as though Rilla could be lumped in with all the other flirts who tried to _catch_ Kenneth Ford -as Mrs West was fond of saying.

"It must be nice being so close to the shore," Rilla said, hoping that if she reminded him of its charm he would want to stay there instead of making his way to the West's hideously papered parlour.

"It is," Ken replied, he was not in the least inclined to take a detour to his cousin's house, for reason's more or less identical to the girl beside him. "Although I admit I was a little annoyed at first." He had been more than that, he had been exceedingly scornful of the suggestion that he summer with the tart tongued, beady eyed wife of Martin West. Yet he came to find himself not just tolerating but rather enjoying her teasing, boisterous ways. She was so altogether different to his mother, and he could better understand how a family like the Blythes would be lost without their Susan. "I didn't imagine I would stay as long as I have-"

"But you've only been here a month! We've hardly seen you as it is, what with your... I hope you don't mean to go soon-"

Why didn't she just propose to him on the spot! He couldn't be in any doubt of her feelings now! Oh how was it done, this fraught business? She would never mock at Nan and Jem again.

"Not at all," Ken answered lightly, belying the happiness on hearing that she had missed him as much as he had missed her. "Miriam West is an utter brick! She puts me in my place... and I dare say I deserve it."

"And what is _your place?_"

The question hit him like a vicious gust of icy air the Gulf could suddenly hurl at you on a blue skied Island day.

"Exactly, Rilla. I hate living with this feeling -that I have had every advantage and yet haven't been able to make something of it!"

"Who says you need to?" asked the girl whose proudest accomplishment so far had been obtaining permission to come to this dance tonight .

"Indeed. It's that bally Piper's fault, isn't it? The one your genius of a brother keeps going on about. Signalling the call, pointing us to our higher purpose... And we're all supposed to follow blindly-"

"Not blindly!" Rilla exclaimed. She had an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps Ken was angry at Walter, or if not angry then frustrated, and a strong and loyal need to protect her brother rose up inside her.

"No-" Ken said quickly, ashamed to see the anguish writ in tiny lines upon her brow, "of course not blindly, Rilla, I only meant that sometimes a fellow might wonder if he has followed the wrong path."

"Oh, you shall have your chance to make it right, again. If I know anything then at least I know _that_!" Rilla smiled, filled with a happiness now the conversation had returned to surer ground; she may have been a little fool but she was also a Blythe. "As Mother says '_there's always a bend in the_ _road'."_ A delicious pang went through her as she spoke: was it her imagination, or did Kenneth Ford give her hand a fleeting yet tender squeeze?

They were interrupted now by the crunch of their feet on the needles and twigs a clump of pine-trees had rained upon the ground. Beyond this little forest the hedge of Hollyhocks reared up; as would the eyebrows of the Mrs West within, should she catch sight of the two of them.

"Looks like we've just come to ours, Rilla-my-Rilla. We should turn around and go back or we'll miss supper at the Light as well."

The hours it seemed to take to get to one end of the sandbar fell away in minutes on their return. The yellow flat sat waiting for them and soon Rilla and Ken sat within her; eyes upon the oars, the waves, the sky, anywhere but on each other. A fine, thin sound of music was carried on the air as they rowed to shore, air that was crisper and cooler than before. Rilla shivered lightly and rubbed her arms, and soon Ken's jacket found its way around her. The size of it seemed to engulf her, it felt exotic, bulky and angular, and something more than that; something shocking, the way the silken lining kissed her bare skin.

"Please take it back," said Rilla shyly, as Ken tethered the boat to the dock once more, "it's not so cold as it was on the open water."

Ken slid it from her shoulders and shuffled it over his own. It sat upon him uneasily -though it had been tailored to fit his every inch- as if it was not the jacket that he could feel about him but Rilla herself. He was still tugging and fussing with it as they climbed the stone staircase to the pavilion. Ned Burr had forsaken his fiddle for the smaller comforts of his pipe, and erstwhile dancers in couples and in threes sat upon the railing, sipping punch and fixing their supper onto their forks.

They entered the Lighthouse kitchen, a room once so warm and cosy now alien and strange. Wasn't it another world, or had they just come from one? Surely there was no going back to such everyday, inconsequential things like lemon cake and sherbet ice! Rilla put the smallest crumb to her lips but could barely swallow it, every part of her aware of the way her arm brushed against Ken's leg as he sat on the thick window ledge behind her. The stone felt cool as he leaned against it, and when his arm drifted down he could feel the thick knot of Rilla's hair press into the back of his hand. Presently she turned her head and a fragile bloom loosened from the pretty twists at her nape. Ken caught it in his palm and it seared him like a little flame.

An exquisite tension coiled around them both, so that even though they neither spoke nor sat directly by each other anyone who saw them knew and understood that Rilla Blythe and Kenneth Ford were most definitely _together_. Bound in an intimacy so electric that every tiny movement was a message to the other, yet so tenuous it might be snapped at any moment.

It was nothing so flimsy as a page of newsprint that undid them. Clutched in the trembling hand of a serious young man who stalked grimly into the room, his eyes dark and lips pale.

"England has declared war on Germany..." *

An eruption of noise rushed violently through them now; an awful, frightening racket as though they stood too close to the platform's edge while a great train hurtled passed. Ken was sick and excited and anxious all at once. He felt both alive to new possibilities and never so close to death. The whole of the tiny Lighthouse kitchen fairly rattled with the word: _war, war, war, war_. The words like pistons of a hulking black engine that would carry them all away.

Ken had a sudden image of himself struggling to catch that train; hobbling after it desperately, as Jem and Jerry and every other Canadian boy waved at him with a jeering pity, and left him behind. It was the cruelest blow, he thought darkly, to have a purpose, a reason, a chance for honour and adventure dangled in front of him and be denied it. Blast his ankle! Blast the school-boyish vanity that had been the cause of it! Blast every moment he had railed against it until now. _Now_ when it really mattered: what were strolls and dances and football games compared with this?

The chatter in the kitchen began to abate, those who remained having lost interest in such news -for what did the politics of dusty old Europe matter, when there was cherry pie to devour, and the blatant way Minette Lewis snubbed Dunstan Cole to discuss? Even ol' Ned had been prevailed upon to give them another jig. The serious pontificators had taken themselves away from the party and Ken itched to follow them, and would have too, if not for the little lass perched unhappily beneath him.

Ken touched his hand gently upon Rilla's shoulder and she looked up slowly, the gold in her eyes mere flickers of what they had been moments before. Her pale oval face staring up at him expectantly, waiting for Ken to make sense of it all. A blur of words passed between them, a fraught exchange that showed nothing so much as how little they knew each other. He might try to be gentle, she might try to be wise, but he was too overwhelmed and she too uncomprehending. It was another gulf they stared at now, with Ken on one side and Rilla on the other.

Ken was at once appalled and relieved. To think she might have tied herself to him; to think he had wanted her to. A young girl of bright and perfect promise to be made to wait -for him! What expectation, what possessiveness when he had selfishly called her Rilla-_my_-Rilla! There could be no thought of that now.

He would go. He would find a way to finally be part of something bigger than himself. And Rilla Blythe would be free to cherish a boy yet too young to leave her. Ken would do this for her, he would let her go -it was the one thing he could do.

Rilla must have thought so too, as a young lad approached her nervously and asked her for a dance. Ken watched her as she took the boy's hand without a word, and slowly but assuredly walked away from him. His eyes never left the form of the beautiful girl in the pale green dress, but she never looked back. He blew the golden blossom from his palm as though snuffing out a light, and went looking for war.

… … …

*At this point Germany had invaded Belgium. Belgium had asked England to come to its aid, but to do so would be seen as an open act of war against Germany. As Canada was at this time a dominion (former colony) of England it was expected to support England's war effort; so England's war is effectively Canada's war.

**Thank you so much for reading! I hope you are coming to love or at least understand Kenneth Ford a little better -that's why I am writing this; to unravel the love affair between Rilla and Ken. In the next chapter we are back with the Blythes and Merediths, as they try to come to terms with the effect the war will have on their lives (and their loves)**


	6. Fall Out

**There is a natural place where this chapter should end, which will become apparent to you as you come to it. But as this story is really about Ken I felt that there shouldn't be a chapter where he isn't featured. Unfortunately because he was so slow in turning up (that blasted ankle!) this chapter became rather a long one. A better writer would have known what to do (including how to avoid the double negative above) in any case I hope you are in the mood for lots of conversation -for Walter and Faith it's been a long time coming...**

**Chapter six: Fall Out**

_In which Jem loses faith in Walter; Walter loses faith in himself; Ken feels rather lost; and everyone loses Rilla completely_

_**The Harbour Road, Four Winds ...later that same night**_

The dory clattered into the dockside, thumping against sea-greyed posts as those within began to make their way unsteadily to shore.

"Wait!" said Walter, as Jem leapt from the boat.

"Don't-" his brother hissed, shaking off the pale hand that tried to stay him.

"Jem-"

"Not now-" Jem dashed over to the two passengers who had lost no time getting themselves back onto dry land -a moonlit jaunt across the Harbour it had not been. "So long then, Joe! Miranda!" he called out heartily -though more from good form than good feeling.

"G-good night" the two stammered back before scampering away in the manner of rodents and sinking ships. Whether this was due to the excited beats in their chests or the lurching feeling in their stomachs it would be difficult to discern; for Joe Milgrave was never one to say as much as a 'yes' to a lass if a nod would do, and Miranda Pryor was always so unnervingly wan that she made a peeled potato look gaudy by comparison.

Faith took hold of Walter's hand as he helped her ashore and then went swiftly to Jem's side. She was just as eager as pale Miss Pryor to link arms with her favourite, not only because it was her habit but because of an unnerving feeling that seemed to swell inside -Jem had rowed them back from the dance at Four Winds at such a frantic rate she felt a little queasy herself.

But this had been no race against Carl in the other boat, Jem had pulled away from the Lighthouse before Nan and Miss Oliver had even made their way down to the dock. Yet he pulled at the oars with such vehemence the others all became quite silent at the sight of it. Something was not right -and it wasn't just the incredible news of war that made Faith uneasy- even Joe and Miranda had seemed glad to get away from them. Of course, it was a rare opportunity for those poor thwarted lovers to have a long stroll home to look forward to. Josiah Pryor was rather particular over who had the privilege of walking his daughter home, and young Milgrave did not fulfil even one requirement of the old man's pompous and lengthy criteria.

"Whiskers-on-the-Moon is going to skin you alive for letting Joe escort his daughter home!"

Faith giggled, giving Jem's arm an affectionate squeeze. She had hoped to make him laugh, but instead discovered that the uncomfortable tension in the air seemed to emanate from Jem himself; the muscles in his body bristling under her touch.

"I never thought there'd come a day when I would say this, Faith, but right at this moment I know just how ol' Pryor feels!"

"You do?" Faith noticed that although Jem addressed her he was looking over at his brother.

"Perhaps you're right, Faith, perhaps I should call Joe back and then Walter can walk Miranda home instead -I'm sure he would be considered a far more suitable choice of husband for Miss Pryor ...he and Moony already have such a _lot _in common-"

"I'm no pacifist, Jem," Walter answered from behind Faith's shoulder. He sounded calmly quiet, but those who knew him heard the anguish in his voice.

Jem was unmoved. "Indeed. Shall we, Faith?"

Faith was unexpectedly lurched off her feet and clung to Jem as he propelled them both forward. She turned back and saw a haunted look in Walter's grey eyes.

"Jem, what on earth is going on?" Faith loosened her hold and reached for Walter, trying to bring them together. Jem shuffled away from both of them with a huff of exasperation.

"Please don't go like this ...if you would just listen to me-" Walter said, trying vainly to maintain an even tone in front of Faith.

Jem turned back and fixed the boy opposite him with a piercing stare. The same stare he had endured from a snickering, scathing crowd who had watched with gaping mouths as Walter announced his bleak-hearted premonitions about the war.

It should have been such a momentous occasion in all their lives, a date that all would look back on and say '_I was there the day the world_ _went to war._' To know that Canada would go into battle and that he, Jem Blythe from her tiniest Isle would have a part to play! But there was to be no back-slapping, no flag hoisting. If anyone was to remember anything about this night then it would be the dark, unwanted words of his brother that would stick horribly in their memory.

"_Listen_ to you?" Jem cried, "That's all we've been doing from the moment the news came! Listening to Walter Blythe's _grand pronunciations..._" he waved his arms about in a mocking fashion, which made Faith inhale in shock and Walter wince. "How _could_ you, Walter?"

"I never meant-"

Faith could hear the tremor in Walter's voice and knew how hard he must be working to keep his tears at bay. "Jem, please... You know it's just Walter's way-"

"Why do you _always_ take his part, Faith?"

"You are being unreasonable," she said quietly.

"_I'm_ unreasonable?" This was too much. Now Faith -_his Faith-_ was acting as though it was Walter who had been in the right. "What about _him_?" Jem asked her, "No sooner is war declared then he starts spouting off on the Lighthouse steps about how Canada is about to enter a -a dance of _death!_ That a _million_ hearts will break... that we will all cry tears of _blood _before the end_ ..._For God's sake!"

"Steady on, Jem!" Jerry Meredith exclaimed. Having been left to tie the boat up he had come late to the conversation, and did not like the little that he now saw. Especially his sister's part in it; shining eyed and upset -and squarely placed between the two Blythe brothers.

"Sorry, old man," Jem said with a shrug, "my temper is getting the better of me. We should go." He took a few steps along the Harbour Road and then turned abruptly, "Faith, did you still want me to accompany you home?"

It was Walter who spoke. "I think you owe Faith an apology, first."

"I owe - _I_ owe?" Now he was speaking for her, as well! "What about _you_? Your words upset lot of people at the dance, Walter." He moved toward him, and his brother met him, step for step.

"War _is _upsetting-" he cried angrily.

"For you, you mean," was Jem's cold reply.

"Jem..." Faith murmured, undone by the hurt in both their voices, a sickening dread bolting through her that this had nothing to do with the war, or at least not the war against Germany. She glanced across at Jerry who was staring very decidedly at the ground, while the two other young men locked eyes as though they locked horns. "Jem, whatever has come over you -will you not tell me?"

Only her plea could have made him want to break his gaze; Faith's voice filled with a yearning that could yet melt his stony resolve -if only he could have ignored the question of exactly who she was yearning for. He turned toward her now, and shuddered inwardly as she took the tiniest step away from him.

"Faith," he uttered, not from his lips but from his heart. "Why are you acting like this -as though what I am saying is so suddenly unfair?" If his hazel eyes clouded over it not only with anger.

But Faith did not see it, and looked where her brother looked, on a well trod, rusty ground. "I- I..." she began, but whatever she thought she had wanted to say stayed lodged in her throat.

"You told _me_ you wished you could go into battle against the Hun yourself." *

"Not everyone feels that way," she said finally.

"Who besides Walter?"

"He's your _brother!_" She looked up at him now, her eyes not little flames but watery pools.

"Perhaps you'd like him to walk you home instead."

"Oh Jem, don't say such things-" Faith cried out now, as Jem stalked off alone. For the first time in her life she felt unable to make her legs move -she who could never sit in a chair for two minutes together! She glanced over at Jerry. She couldn't look at Walter.

Jerry pulled his sister to him and lay his arm around her gently. He had been dumbfounded at the scene he had witnessed, and then suddenly ashamed to see his own dark thoughts play out in front of him. There was perhaps nothing he could say to his friend -Jerry knew that if his own feelings had been so rawly revealed he would not have been in the listening mood. Yet perhaps Jem might take some comfort knowing Jerry comprehended all too well the mysterious workings of the heart.

"Perhaps Walter should take you, Faith. Let me have a word with Jem..."

Faith yanked herself away to refuse his suggestion, but then saw the look on Jerry's face and knew utterly that if anyone had a chance to talk some sense into Jem it would be her brother. She nodded and watched with a sad resignation as he strode away. Unexpectedly he turned back now, and took her hands in his.

"If Father has yet to hear the news... about England, about the war... would you -if you can help it, Faith- would you not say anything until I come home? This will upset them all greatly." He kissed the gold-brown hair that swept over her forehead, then set off down the Harbour Road.

It wasn't until Jerry disappeared from view that Faith could bring herself to think of Walter again. He was leaning against the sturdy stone barrier that had been built before a steep drop into the Harbour. His face an unreadable silhouette, the hair he would always rake back raffishly now drooping down over his eyes. She walked up to him, but he seemed to find the ground beneath him as interesting as she and Jerry had. Her hands touched upon the flat stones that topped the old wall, and she worried out a brittle piece of mortar and cast it into the water below.

"Walter, I... What say we don't go back to the Manse yet? I don't think I could keep all ..._this_ to myself."

Walter looked at her now with a wry half-smile on his lips.

"It's not likely you'll have to, Faith. Do you not see the telephone wires alive with the news?" He gestured to the posts that stood sentry on the other side of the road, the thick black cord that linked them undulating like the waves of another kind of sea.

"I'm afraid that I don't," Faith replied, "I never had that knack-"

"Of seeing things that weren't there?"

"No, I... I didn't mean that exactly-"

"Be glad that you don't, Faith."

She turned around now and gave him a friendly nudge with her shoulder. "Oh, I don't know. I could have spared myself a few scrapes if I had such an ability as yours. An imagination can't hurt you -the way the real world can."

She could not know how her words cut him, how relieved he was that his hair fell over his eyes -they ached with tears that were hot and heavy and he could not hold them back. There were no unimagined horrors for him. Every horror, every cruelty, each unspeakable pain lived within him; a rare yet unholy burden that was his alone to bear. Tonight it had fallen upon him with its full force, and it was all Walter could do not to scream to the skies. He saw and he felt with a heartbreaking clarity just what this war would do to them; would take from them. Saw how it would break him -like the torturous burden it was- grind him down to nothing, as the sea ground rock to sand, as a heel broke rock to dust. He lived with this, had always lived with this; each day leading him closer to that door in the mountainside, knowing that terror lived behind it. And tonight it was as if the door was flung open and he was made to stand and watch as his friends, his _brothers_, smiled and sang of the magnificent view within.

He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, and then combed back his hair with his fingers. Faith stood there quietly holding out her handkerchief. After a moment he grabbed it and dabbed at his cheeks, before noticing the monogram spelling out in Susan-made stitches, J.M.B. He pressed his nose into it then and gave a terrific honk.

Faith nudged him again. "Help me up, won't you? My feet are killing me."

Walter stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of his jacket and then grasped Faith quickly and lifted her onto the wall. "Faith Meredith -can't even climb a little wall anymore."

"It's these shoes! You men, you wouldn't understand. How I envy you sometimes!"

Walter hoisted himself up next to her and looked over his shoulder at the Harbour below. It had a midnight calmness that was all velvet, and he did not know what scared him more; the fact that even in the face of this devastating news it remained unchanged, or the knowledge it would never be the same again.

"Would you really go, Faith? If you could, would you really go to war?"

There was something in his face that made Faith want to give a different answer, a tender gentleness that she felt loathe to harm or disappoint. But to lie to him, to tell him what he wanted to hear would be to mistake that gentleness for weakness, and Faith was not about to make that mistake.

"Honestly? Yes, Walter I would. I would go. And gladly."

There it was once more -that fiery glow that had seemed to go out of her- now kindled bright and irrepressible. Walter knew who she was thinking of.

"And you'll let Jem go -just as gladly?"

"I would be more glad if I could go with him," she smiled, "I would be very glad if I could fight by his side." Her legs began to swing and toss her dark green skirts about. "It never was within me to sit by the fire and wait. Much better to do something than nothing!"

"We can agree there, at least." Walter said, the tiniest glint in his eyes that naught but the oldest of friends could have seen.

"We can agree on _most_ things, I think Walter." She had meant to be funny, but somehow it had all become horribly serious again. They sat in silence, Faith sliding her fingers between the stones where the mortar had worn away, Walter watching as Faith's kicking legs became slower and slower and then still. "You have always been dear to me," she said quietly.

The careful way she said it made Walter want to leap from the wall, he suddenly felt so miserably hot and uncomfortable he wanted nothing more than to jump into the water below.

"The way Bruce is dear to Jem," he said, not a little scornfully.

"If you like."

"And if I don't like?" he dug his hands into his pockets and flinched against Jem's balled up handkerchief.

"That's just your anger speaking," Faith said coolly.

"I'm not angry-"

"Oh ho ho, pull the other one, Walter Blythe! You are fit to burst! I can see that at least. I know what it's like to feel mad at the world -I was so cross when Mother died, I could barely keep myself still. I remember bed time was such a trial. Poor Una, she's probably _still_ got the bruises from all my kicking. But I was just boiling over with the unfairness of it all -and so are you. It just comes out differently-"

"Differently?"

"In words -always trying to catch something and pin it down, as if you could make sense of it -but they just keep flying round that head of yours the way my arms and legs would fly about the place."

Walter stared at her with a wordless awe; that he had not thought of himself this way was already surprising, but that it should be Faith Meredith who had seen this in him was nothing less than astounding. He _was_ angry -by God he was angry! Angry at a world so set on destroying itself, and not able to do anything but write of its destruction. He stared out at the sea, the sky and the water all merging into one; like the great wave Miss Oliver had dreamed of -rushing in and destroying all in its path.

"And you're not angry anymore?"

Though she knew he must be speaking to her it seemed for all the world as if Walter was asking the sea. He might ask it all he liked; Faith knew that no answer, no consolation would be found there.

"How can you ask that? Of course I get angry. Besides a Doctor's the only family who knows more than they would ever want to know about the misery people suffer is a Minister's. And now with this war-" Faith stopped then and grasped at Walter's hand. "That's why I -I... _feel_ about your brother the way I do. Because he sees a problem -and then he does something about it-"

"Whereas I-"

"One is not better than the other Walter," Faith said, shaking her head, "would you have me compare myself to Una?"

One might as well compare a tiger-lily to a tea rose. Walter grazed his thumb tenderly across the top of her hand. "Did it ever strike you as strange -Una's name? That its Latin meaning is _one,_ yet she is the second daughter."

"I never thought of it till now. How funny -our names are the wrong way round! At any rate perhaps she should have been called Faith."

"Hmm, well now you say that I'm not so sure. Una is rather a singular girl. And when I think of Faith I think-"

"Of all the gold/ and all the silver/ of all the wheat/ and all the earth..." **

He could not have leapt into sea now if he had wanted to. He was rooted to the spot as a multitude of feelings drilled through him unmercifully. That he had been sitting with her so comfortably only served to make it worse -he was embarrassed, proud, hopeful, lost. "Did you like it?" was all he could say.

"I'm not even going to answer that, Walter Blythe!"

"You hated it then." He suddenly realised Faith's hand was still in his, he opened his fingers and let her go.

"It's not a question of hate ...or l-love" Faith stammered, "It's a, it's a question of-"

"Jem." Walter said simply. "Do you love him?"

"If I did Walter Blythe then I would tell _him_ before I would tell _you_," Faith answered with a deliberate pertness, she crossed her legs and patted down her skirts.

"You love him."

"Don't put words in my mouth, if there's one thing I can't bear-"

"You are about to put words into my mouth, though, aren't you? You are going to tell me that I don't-"

"-I, oh..."

"It's alright, Faith. I know," said Walter quietly.

"What do you know?" she asked him, peering into him with those inscrutable cat-eyes -seeing all and telling nothing. He could not look back at her, not yet. And never in the way he thought he once might.

"That I've been fooling myself-"

Faith grabbed his hand again, "I hope you don't think that I lead you to believe-" she cried.

"No! I..." Walter stopped for a moment and then suddenly -worryingly, Faith thought- looked at her and grinned. "I just saw something that wasn't there."

He was Walter again. Dearest, darling Walter. Her friend of old, and, Faith hoped -oh, please let it not be too much to hope- her friend forever.

"I will always be there for you, Walter-"

Such a phrase should have hurt -should have been like a poison to him- but instead he felt this too was something he could bear, and not only for himself but for her sake too.

"Be there for Jem. He will need you more than ever, now..."

"Oh, Jem!" It was Faith's eyes who darted to the sea now, as though she expected to find herself lost and tossed upon the waves.

"You don't want him to go?" Walter asked her, and she turned back just as quickly and patted the top of his hand. There were things that she would tell him, and things she could never explain. And other things besides that belonged only to the realm of Jem and Faith.

"I wish there wasn't a need, but no -I know he will want to go ...and I know I will have to let him..." She was quiet again, though Walter knew she had so much more to say -words of love and anger and pride and dread. He also knew that he would never be the one to hear them. "I will depend upon you, Walter," she said at last, "When Jem and Jerry go-"

"You think I won't go, too?" he said dully.

"I thought -with the fever ... I assumed that you couldn't-"

"No. I couldn't."

"Then we must take care of each other."

Faith smiled again. And it was enough. Tomorrow it might not be, but tomorrow lay behind that door now; there was no knowing what he would find in tomorrow. Tonight however, he had Faith's hand in his and her smile to enjoy, and it was, miraculously, enough.

**… … …**

"Walter, Faith!" Di called out, merrily. She had been in cosy confidence with her twin, and the thrill of a newly gleaned discovery sounded clearly in her voice. It gave way to a woeful confusion when she and Nan were brought up cold by the realisation that their younger brother and Faith Meredith were standing alone and gazing at the sea together.

"What... Where are Jerry and Jem?" Nan exclaimed, "you rowed away from us like the hounds of hell were on your heels!"

"Walter, why are you walking Faith home?" Di asked him slowly.

They peered at the unexpected couple curiously, while Una and Miss Oliver, Shirley and Carl came strolling up behind.

Faith felt her face go red, she went to look at Walter and then faltered. "Jem and Jerry were jawing on about the news," she said, a little too brightly, "you know what they're like-"

Di looked at her brother now, with sharp green eyes that said _what's really going on? _Walter gave a small shrug.

"Jem and I quarrelled -no it's alright, Faith- Jem was quite right," said Walter firmly. "I had no right to say what I did-"

Di took his arm and nestled against him. They knew Jem had been annoyed at Walter, but assumed that all had been made well again when Walter suddenly leaped into Jem's boat instead of coming in their own. It had all begun within moments of Jack Elliott's announcement of war. Jem had raced off impatiently, looking for Captain Jo to raise the flag, but his enthusiasm was soon worn down by all manner of party guests demanding he explain exactly what his brother was on about. It seemed Walter had not been content to throw cold water on everyone's excitement, but buckets of bloody feeling.

"I do," Di said, "Because you have a heart! Jem ought to understand that you _feel_ things-"

Walter pulled away from her, he did not deserve her comfort. "It's Jem who'll be suffering, it's Jem who'll be going-" He sounded proud, yet Di could hear his frustration too.

"What?" Nan exclaimed -if Jem was set on going then that would mean... "Are they already talking of enlisting? This is like a bad dream!" she looked about them all with a panicking heart, and caught Miss Oliver's dark eye -there was something not right about her, as though she was missing something ...the floaty little cirrus to her glowering nimbus. "Where is Rilla, Walter! Did she not come in your boat?"

"Rilla? No- we assumed you'd found her!" Faith exclaimed. "Have we left her at the Light?"

"Oh, this is really heaping Pelion on Ossa!" Gertrude Oliver groaned, wishing very much that she was at home now, tucked up in bed in the pale hope that better dreams might be waiting for her there at least.

"I'll go back and look for her," said Walter, pulling away from the circle, "Shirley you'll walk the girls back, won't you? You may bump into Jem on the way-"

"I can go back with you if you like, Walt-" Carl began.

"Let's all head back to the Manse at all accounts," said Di, decidedly. Then turned to see her brother so small against a big black sky that she suddenly felt that he shouldn't go alone. "Unless you want someone to come with you, Walter?"

"No. It was my idea to let Puss come tonight, it should be me who goes." He placed a peck on Di's cheek -_I'm alright sis!_- then turned back up the Harbour Road. His grey suited form had not gone more than a few paces before he swivelled round and called out to the young set still tutting and shrugging on the roadside. "I say, where did you last see the little minx?"

"That's what _we've_ all been talking about!" Nan laughed back.

**… … …**

"Ken?"

Walter had not been in the world he walked in now, else he would have discerned that the uneven footfall coming toward him could have only come from one man.

"Walter-" Ken said, with equal surprise, "are you on your way back to the Light?"

The two stopped before each other, both white faced, though neither seeing it.

"Yes, looking for Rilla," Walter said, and noticed Ken assume the careless blank look he often gave protective older brothers. "She not with you, I take it?" he smirked.

"No, why -I, no." Ken muttered, knowing he'd been utterly seen through-_ those damnable Blythe eyes!_ There would be no avoiding that question now, he realised. One could not whisk the Doctor's daughter away from a 'big cross on the calendar' affair and expect these upstanding Island folk not to notice. He smoothed his hair back distractedly, it was time to go to the barber. Should he chance it in the Glen -perhaps a couple of days in Charlottetown were in order?

"I thought you took a buggy?" Walter asked him.

Ken gave him a rather devilish grin. "I did. But someone else was in greater need of it than I was."

"Jolly nice of you, considering that foot."

"Not so nice as all that!" Ken laughed, remembering the unlawful look on Ethel Reece's face when she saw it was not Ken Ford who would be sitting next to her on the ride back to Over-Harbour. "There were a few at the party who were rather keen for a drive home -so I let Dunstan Cole have the privilege."

"Was Rilla one of them?"

Ken was not smiling now. "No! Though I'm sure she'll have no trouble finding someone else to take her."

"She was quite the hit, wasn't she!" Walter laughed.

_Right on target,_ Ken thought. "Mmm, I saw her with a group of Upper Glen girls, some of the Crawford clan, I think it was."

He knew exactly who Rilla had been sitting with, and for how long. Always looking to see if she might look for him; the rest of the evening a tedious collection of worthy conversations he couldn't hope to contribute to in any meaningful way -when Ned _would_ keep playing and Rilla _would_ keep dancing. In the end her silly slippers had won out, and Ken left her giggling with her chums when the last dance had been called. There had been nothing left to stay for then. A dance is for dancers -he had been a fool to come.

"-won't get into much trouble with her. Not when Mollie has old Thaddeus Crawford to answer to," Walter was saying.

"Well, I- you didn't want me as part of the search party, did you?" Walter saw very well that Ken hoped he did not.

"No. As you say I'm sure Rilla will be able to make her way home. Her lateness will scarcely register on the scale of things to talk about."

There it was. _War_. Back front and centre where it demanded to be.

"I know," Ken said, his voice betraying a bitter disbelief -that the biggest moment of his life had finally arrived and he wasn't ready for it. "I can't help but feel as though I should be back to Toronto." Or anywhere but where he was.

"I hadn't thought... but of course you'll want to be home now."

The thought left Walter rather desolate. He hadn't realised how much solace he found in the thought of Ken staying on with him this summer. The two invalids together -whilst Canada's finest donned their battledress in readiness for 'The Great Game'.

"You'll want to be home, yourself," said Ken, "did you draw the short straw?"

"Sorry?"

"Your spider-hunt. Why is it you've been sent to look for littlest Blythe all alone?"

"Oh. I didn't care for company, but... I could really use some now. Mind if I walk back with you?"

Poor old thing, Ken thought. He had heard that Walter had let slip a few alarming things at the Light. He felt fairly alarmed himself. His head ached, his foot ached, and his heart... He had thought the walk would do him good -what could be more restorative than a stroll along a coppery road, under a moon that painted every green thing softly pale? But each step only brought to mind the girl he was walking away from. The Island could offer him no remedy; she was the Island. What he needed was a touch of Toronto.

"Let's try our luck and hunt up some fizz at the Coach house!" Ken announced, in that dapper way that was pure city boy, "After all," he added drily, "there's such a lot to celebrate."

_Indeed_, thought the boy beside him -whose own thoughts dwelt ungratefully on the smallness of Island life: Of Ingleside all lit up, the 'phone trilling ceaselessly, the look Mother would give him that said '_at least_ _you won't leave me_', the look Father would give Jem that said '_you know what must be done_'. The look Jem would give him. _Jem! _He could not endure it. Not yet-

"Sure thing!" Walter said, with a flippancy he did not feel. Oh to _not_ feel -just for a little while. He looked over at Ken and surmised he could learn a trick from the cad beside him. Ken, who had spirited Rilla away for_ two hours_, he was told. Yet he wasn't walking her home. And he didn't want to go back for her.

They heard footsteps now; the tapping of a young girl's shoes. But they couldn't be Rilla's -this girl came from the same direction as Walter. The two boys peered into leaf-dappled gloom trying to make out who was tripping toward them. Of course they saw her hair first, that brilliant burst of red that not even midnight could overcome.

"Di!" Walter cried, quickening his steps and pulling Ken's arm to follow -reaching her in a moment that felt much longer than it was. "What- what is it, Di?"

Di lowered her head to her knees and gave over to a few deep breaths, then looked up at them both with an unexpected grin.

"What a piece of luck! I thought I should have to run the whole way -these shoes..."

Though neither knew it both Ken and Walter had fleeting but withering thoughts about the wisdom of women and their preposterous footware.

"Di, you look quite done in-" Ken remarked.

"I could say the same for you!" she blazed back.

"What is it, Di? Seriously now," Walter asked her.

"Oh, I don't really have a serious answer, I just wanted to see you. You looked so -lost when you set off that I couldn't bear it ...so I had to come after you!" and she beamed at them both rather gloriously.

What rot that Di should be denied her share of pink, Walter thought suddenly. The colour fairly bloomed on her face and she glowed with a rare beauty, that when it showed itself made the loveliness of other girls look downright conventional. There was a lively thread of freedom running all through her, brought about by the bliss of being out alone -and on such a night, one that seemed to spark with its own importance. Though it had been a shame that Jem had left them all, Di would not have had this wonderful taste of independence if he had stayed. Fortunately Carl and Shirley were no match for her insistence that she was bound to find Walter in a matter of minutes, and so the night and the road were hers -if only for a moment.

"You are a dear!" said Walter laughingly.

"Aren't I just," she replied, plumping out the satiny blue bow at her hip, "So gents, are you all for home? I think our lot will still be at the Manse, if you want to come along, Mr Ford-"

"Shall we leave it till another night, then-" Ken said to Walter. To lead him astray would be selfishness now -Kenneth Ford might always be looking to suit his own needs but was at not so absorbed that he did not know it: Now was a time for family -not brooding outsiders.

"No fear, Ford," Walter said with a wink. An electric night with his two favourite people -this felt like the first piece of good news he'd had in weeks. "Ken's just invited me -champagne at the Coach house! Care to?" he asked his sister, with a dangerous look in his eyes.

"Try and stop me!" Di replied.

**… … …**

*Hun is a Chinese word for an ancient people who were notorious for their merciless and brutal practices in battle, which a 19th German general wanted to model his army on. The word was appropriated by Allied forces in WW1 as a derogatory term for German soldiers, to describe them as mindless, heartless barbarians.

**fragment from Neruda's Fickle One

**Phew! That was a long one. But I hope you thought it was worth it because the rest of the night is still to come -everyone has to make up with each other again, of course! As always thank you for taking the time to read my story, and for your reviews, I am super chuffed that people are coming over to the Glen.**


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